CONVERSATIONS WITH SELF

‘Hi, miss.’

‘Do we know each other?’

‘I was wondering that too.’

‘Excuse me.’

‘What pride!’

‘This happens to be the finest wine in the whole region.’

‘I reckon I didn’t notice you were a sommelier.’

‘That’s how we miss our fortune.’

‘I guess you need an urgent reality check’

‘Not more than you need to open your eyes wider, you don’t mean?’

‘This coffee is horrible,’

‘Just like the one who made it.’

‘I wanna break free from this trouble.’

‘My advice, break free from yourself.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Pray, you’re the rut yourself.’

‘How do you think the meal was?’

‘Unbelievable. Who is the artist?’

‘The gourmet happens to be standing right in your front.’

‘Honey, I don’t love you.’

‘Me neither, darling.’

‘I made you.’

‘I made myself.’

‘You copied me.’

‘I am smarter.’

‘I don’t hate you. I don’t love you either.’

‘I think you are nuts.’

‘Consider the feeling mutual.’

‘You are a jerk-ass.’

‘Except that I’m not a joke. Like you.’

What you did was utter mediocrity.

Her palate for wine is learned.

This lass is barely tolerable.

Give lash to the horse.

‘What do you think of me?’

‘Nothing. What do you think of me?’

‘Technically, you are a dumbass.’

I can punch within and beyond my weight.

‘Can you please share with me what are you thinking, now?’

‘You, definitely.’

'If I could persuade you to accompany me for dinner, my good lady.'
'You have, sir.'

Charisma does not always sit in a stunning body;

Nor does incredible sex mean a happy life.

I want a lady of flawless conduct, but not a woman with mannerisms of the Victorian-era.

She is a fabulous dresser, and a baggage of pride too.

He is chivalrous, albeit conceited.
‘Can we date?’

‘Is that your best ace?’

‘Can I share a secret?’

‘I’m surprised you can keep one.’

Great is a man who has vast territories under his command;

But even greater is a man who has infinite latency to expand his territories.

‘You have no idea how much I care.’

‘You have no idea how much I don’t.’

Your craving for ill drama is unrivalled.

The resemblance between the boy and his father is magnificent.

Brimming wisdom is bereft of harm.

A little wealth bewitches people
Wise is a man who can keep his cool head in the face of a sudden turn in his fortune.

Shrewder is a man who keeps a spare trick up his sleeve;

It is a world of endless shockers we live in.

‘How the hell did you land this job?’

‘The boss.’

‘What did the boss do?’

‘Fuck me.’

1

My ex: a chronicle

Love. Sigh. Loving. Sigh, sigh. Getting loved. Triple sigh. Cringe.

This is the worst spell to ever be cast upon the face of the earth. A most enchanting illusion, a lie, deception. Even lunacy.

Exes. A taboo subject this is. Yet, you will, for all due respect, allow me to navigate these waters. Thank you.

I, just like you, have been involved in a romantic relationship. Not once. Not twice. Several; running into tens. But one relationship out of these stands out, sticking out like a sore thumb.

Your guess is correct: my first love. Ahem. Everyone has a tale to tell about the first instance their affection juices dripped.

What is this thing about first-love? It is out of my comprehension, a faculty, I bet, that would make Aristotle and other smart asses leave their research tables weeping with the despondency of a failed test.

In a nutshell, I had a girl. How we met was pretty normal. At a college event. You see, nothing much to write home about.

After the usual ritualistic far-fetched flattery and flirtations, we fell in love. All too easily. Easy like pie.

Her Majesty was a genuine beauty: juicy legs, long blonde hair of Uranus-like curls, of terrific skin tone you would eat out of her feet sole. Too much on one soul? Not so.  
I must say that her body was hotter than sulphur. Holy macaroni! Sex with her was heavenly.
Mademoiselle spoke the kind of English you hear only on British classical movies like Game of Thrones, and a borrowed otherworldly accent to complete her ridiculously unbelievable persona.

Again, she was a stunning foodie, an expert in the cookery. But please make me understand, how the deuce was this skill of any importance when all she did was insist that we eat out, all the t

Bill and cooin love

ime?

Refusing would drive a wedge between us, a scenario I dreaded upon.

Did I mention that she Lisa is niece to a legislator known better for his hankering after hullabaloo, and drama?

Such was my fairytale girlfriend. She was the most excellent thing ever –in my wisdom of the day.

And I instantly won a hero status among my chums, and foes.

Our love was overflowing, breaking at the seams.

Yet controversial.

‘Yours is more of an orchestra than real love,’ a friend declared.

In dismay: Why the hell? We are real.’

‘This is a drama you are staging. Not love.’ What a destructive verdict.

For rage, I had trashed the convo.

Not long after, a furious tempest.

Half a year down the line, to be precise. Typically most relationships do not manage this hurdle, or weather the tornado that the after-six-months romp sires.

Accusations? The usual budget: I was not according her sufficient attention. Familiar, right? And total bullshit too, you will agree with me.

All attempts to fan, salvage and resuscitate the romance aborted.

My mate was not wrong.

Good people, our agonising break-up came, coincidentally, during my attachment. Guys, you all understand how tormenting it usually is trying to concentrate on the training, especially if your supervisor is a sadist, and fiercer than Fish Mooney in Gotham.

On the allegation of neglect, good people, the truth is, I was busy. I was trying, and doing my best. I was –good guess, again –skin broke.

When a cathedral mouse is richer than you

We had wined and dined in an upmarket restaurant not once, and positive, I was doing everything in my capacity, and even stretching myself, to support and make her happy. Without reciprocity, mind you.

A rational soul would ask for nothing more, when all the other’s barns have been depleted.

Nonetheless, selfishness thrived over love, compassion and, common sense.

It comes to that point in life, where you really must cut losses and bust. This action is the inevitable waterloo.

So, bae left.

It was hard to believe. Even harder to accept.

Grieving followed. Grieving happened uninhibited. I was inconsolably upset. I was the casualty of our relationship's collapse.

And the promises! The sweet, infinitesimal, funny fancies we had together. The crap. How hollow.

These dreams are now dumped frozen somewhere under Lake Baikal.

I wanted her to carry my daughter, my idol Monique. Every shot who happens to know me will tell you just how sacred this tot is to me.

Sweet Monique

She peed on this dream too.

Get Moni though I must.

It is the 21^st century, and I haven’t read anywhere in the papers about a decrease in ovaries among the womankind. The eggs are in their billions, with many more free for donation to anyone who cares to have them, while landing a willing and loving surrogate mother is easier than getting a cab to town.

She left the alpha man for another better, wiser and perhaps more loaded nigger – checks and balances are part of the game, if you must date her.

 The guy was popular like a rockstar in college.
For woe.

Their hyped up flair of a relationship hardly lasted four months. How could it, in all honesty? Would Providence permit this injustice? Practically, no.

Childish fights epitomised their ephemeral stay-together. Incessant quarrels over little nothings. 
The good bloke, she realised all too soon, was a joke.

Nods.

I was not in the least surprised.

FYI this brunette was of cantankerous conduct. Say, irascible and incredibly puerile propensities. A lame bully would be a more accurate description of her.

She is the breed Sir Irvin Washington (may he rest in peace) calls ‘termagant’ in his amazing fable of Rip Van Winkle. It’s a splendid read. Try it someday.

The stripped fact is, keeping buddies while dating this type of girl is a big hassle. She perpetually sees countless faults in them, and reads iniquity in their hearts. And she will tell you why you must leave them.

Or her, if you choose to keep them.

Bust her!

Tell you what? There are guys who walked out on me when I moved in with Lisa. Many. She had a viperfish air about her person, despising all that was hallowed to me before she came into the picture.

Yet I was deceived like King Uther Pendragon by the disgusting sorcery of the troll in the guise of Lady Catrina of Tregor in Merlin.

Who did she think she was? Khaleesi the Mother of Dragons? Helen of Troy? Venus or Madonna? She was close to these, that’s given.

Close, but not quite.

I thought I would never date again. We all feel so when our maiden love torpedoes.

Until something more finger-licking smiled up on me, and knew that my testosterone would be very much handy elsewhere.

Guys, I lost my humour. My feelings went out the window with Lady Lisa.

What I have now is a heart of steel. Like one cast in Germany’s the Rhine. Heaven forbid, I cannot lie to someone about how much I feel them. I cannot love, simply. I fucking cannot be in a relationship!

Why would I? I mean, there are finer ladies who slap me with enthralling smirks at coffee shops. The variety of grins these mortals have honed make you stop stirring your coffee and stick your finger in the nose, utterly spellbound.

I run into these every time at Thika’s Pizza Inn, whenever I’m out to grab my cup for the road. This joint is the only goddamned place in the goddamned township where you can get some kickass coffee.

Their cappuccino though is overpriced, so, with my skimpy earnings, but with a devoutly coffee-faithful palate, I content myself with their cheaper but equally vitalising Americano.

Their smiles are legitimate. So just so you know a smile is synonymous with a fling. Cringe. Gosh, for what other possible end would a total stranger afford to smile at you?

These you can leap into bed with for as little a return of the magical smile. And bed here means not the Oxford Dictionary bed. Rather, anywhere: behind a FuelSave, Nakumatt or, yes, Chase Bank.

The latter particularly would be friendlier as the owners have since left. Rumour has it they are in the Bahamas enjoying sunshine, sunbathing, and the smell of sea.

Oopsie! The drivel.

Where were we?

Oh, yes, ladies who smile at you at such places as a coffee shop. No. We were discussing the earthly reason that would compel me to embark onto a long-term and usually more expensive relationship when there are simpler, cheaper and even more fun, yes more fun, arrangements.

I have had the luck of meeting her. And every time we met, I was benevolent enough to esteem her with diplomacy, in the way of a gentleman.

I gather –from my all-knowing sources –that missy has been undergoing a raft of changes lately. Man, she is in a transition.

Takes a draft at my dear coffee.

She dons in longer, shout ‘decent’, dresses of startling modesty. Like an old serpent does to her skin, she has shorn her hair. Daring, right? Takes another draft, this time longer.

Nowadays, she whiles her time reading the 600-page-plus type of novels. The ones with English so stiff you will really have to be high on weed to comprehend a thing, leave alone the plot.

The number is three, every month. Bites my burger.

More rumour has it that her life has been more tumultuous than the economy of Greece.

Straightens my shirt’s creases.

The people we meet in life have an infinite capacity to change us. Transform us forever. Regrettably, I met the wrong strain of a lover.

I felt that Christian Grey –for the uninitiated, Grey is the succulent guy, CEO of Grey Enterprises, Anastasia Steel falls in love with in Fifty Shades of Grey –was nuts when he said he did not recognise love-making, preferring instead to fuck.

Hard fuck, he emphasises.

Let your jaws drop.

Like poor Miss Anastasia, I did not initially understand him. Until now. If I ever bump into him in town, his omelette will be on me.

I regret nothing, but I lost my emotional touch with many a things. Emotional connection –sigh –is what I now abhor. I hate the fact that I now dislike being able to connect emotionally. But it’s ruin I am guarding myself against.

Circumstances have taught me to prefer more physical interactions: amorous congress. The searing, impulsive and invigorating shagging. The Trojan type of sex.

The kind you see in blue movies, and which keep you glued to your screen all weekend in your house with the door tightly bolted.

We all watch porn. I watch porn. I love porn.

Takes another sip of my coffee. Not Maina Kageni’s cliché whisky.

Attention! That is not to suggest that the alpha man beds any beddable meatbag he runs into. No. Not just anyone. The subject better be mouth-watering in looks, and brainy. Screw manners. Fuck status. Fuck everything else.

Why am I saying all this? Is it out of disgust? Bitterness? Loss? Negative. It is just to ridicule my then folly, and laud my wisdom of the present moment. The tsunami left me way wiser than Gaius. Claps for self.

Expenses are a million times fewer. Go ahead, brand me a cheapskate. A cheapskate who can now save for some real estate in a not-so-badly-off neighbourhood. Being nagged has ceased to be part of my life.

Yet benefits are still intact. Repeat that line.

What’s more, I’m more at peace with myself, and friends. Asking for more would be a distinct act of thanklessness to my new, better circumstances.

Bites another portion of my burger. Chews, slowly. Then listens to the intermittent thoughts in my crammed head.

I will now pen down.

I’m stepping out to treat my eyes to what they fancy beholding.

Adieu!

Barbershop Affair

I had been shelving a haircut for three days now. My moustache was badly unkempt and hair in a state of utter unruliness, pretty much like someone shot with a crossbow from abyss. I strictly needed grooming. There was no putting this off for a day more.Driving home, I pulled off at the next hair-shop. Rogue sexual manouvres The Grooming Lounge was an obscenely swanky place. There hang in the atmosphere of this roomy facility a sweet fragrance of intrusive notes of a mixture of Jasmine and grapes. The facility was bedecked with everything attractive and modern: clippers, aftershaves, lotions, clinical spirits, towels and electronics.  A large Gangnam-style-size flat screen occupied virtually the entire left wall. When I stepped in, three young ladies sat chatting animatedly in posh reclining chairs. My entry chocked their talk. One of them sprang up, and letting out a wickedly infectious smile, she invited me to a seat. The enthusiastic trio Returning the smirk with a half infectious version of my own, and blushing from ear to ear like aVirunga Forest gorilla, I sank myself into the cosiness of the beige leather couch she had indicated. "How may I attend to you, sir?" Asked she with gentility as soon as I had sat. "I need a haircut," I said. "Thank you." I quickly added to sound equally civil.  "Welcome, sir." Truly in my wildly hairy state I did not quite deserve the title 'sir'. Yet that was far from what caused me ceaseless discomfiture. Rather for three reasons. One, this lady that was diligent at my service was of a sumptuously pretty frame. She was the very essence of beauty. Two, her smile, which she generously brandished, was otherworldly, simply. Three, she stood only a barleycorn away from me, holding my oxt at ransom, and heartbeat on a rapturous race. Presently, her buddies excused themselves, sneaking grins at us. We were suddenly on our own devices. Such a snare! I could not have been worse on the edge of a slippery precipice. Madame Awesome-sauce Sitting here with this near-mythic goddess for a minute more was tormenting. In fact it was already apocalyptic down south –my underwear was soak with...semen. With my inside stark tremulous, I wondered when a man would emerge from anywhere, to serve me.

Meanwhile, miss made herself busy. She cleaned her beautiful hands of long and oh-hell-delectable fingers in a sink with warm water. She then wiped them in a decidedly seductive and measured manner that oozed expertise in this that was her trade, every few seconds casting my way a lascivious glance. How I avoided our eyes locking. For she looked every sense a bully in a stare combat, I understood that half staring at her would be the nadir of my unstable sanity, morality.  Missy proceeded to clean and sterilise her tools of work: shaver, clippers and tweezers. By now, it was no longer oblivious to me that for the next half hour or so I would be under her care. Done, she spun around and faced me. Her succulent lips hardened into a thin line of smile. Again!! Then a natural killer dimple formed on her left cheek. Shit! Was this a weapon she was using against me?  If she was determined to unsettle me, she was succeeding in that. I was immediately thrown into a trance. Then said she with her trademark congeniality: "I was wondering if we may start, sir?" My subconscious jumped inside me. "Hell no. Get me someone else, if you may, Madame awesome-sauce!" He screamed. Relax, friend. Relax. I implored my inner self. “Call me Jim." I said casually, more to alleviate my shuddery self and less to her question. "Kindly tell me whenever you are ready," she went on. "I'm ready, please." I said nearly losing my breath. She smiled, closing in on me and adjusting her apron straps. "Liar!"  my little moral man yelled at me. "I’m ready." I repeated, in response to my opposing inside. "Fine! Get the darn thing done," the exasperated subconscious whined as the lady started attending to me. Poor thing, he had conceded. Damnit! Her soft hands on my head were a completely insane turn-on. My head was overly super-sensitive, and I was getting badly pushed to the cliff-edge. "My name is Agatha," she said as the shaver began ploughing my scalp. "That's a pretty name, I must admit." Her face glowed. "I know, thanks." A moment passed. "You stole that, didn't you?" I asked tracing my elusive equilibrium. "I bet you're right." I saw her smile through the mirror. "I did." "You must fancy the writer, Christie?" I fanned the conversation. "Yes. Mystery works are my cup of tea." Wasn't that a striking similarity between the shearer and the shorn? More jam continued. Client and practitioner discussed the subject of life, analysing sports, politics, literature and trends, wheeling from random to particular topics, spicing up our chat brew with worthy subjects and trivia alike. It was a sensational moment where my interest and marvel met her wit and vitality. Ours was a heavenly blend. At some point I felt it was disgraceful for this height of brilliance to belong here. I was prompted to ask her. I encoded the question in the following carefully chosen words and indirect fashion: "You must love your job?" She sighed, then pouted her lips, gestures whose meaning I could not decipher. My gut knotted quite uncomfortably. Had I pressed the wrong button? Immediately I regretted the possibly misfired shot. What followed thereafter was an edgy silence. While I lost enthusiasm to steer on, her mien did not lose its sparkly glee. Cheer was a permanent feature on this lady's countenance, I could tell. "I bet I do," she said finally. Relief got the better of me. "You seemed to consider, for so long?" I said emphatically. "Did I?" She smiled impishly. "One must love whatever sets bread on their table." "You are very right," was all I afforded to say in response to her wisdom, and sighed as an acknowledgement that I had been mean in my response.

"So," she said wiping hair from the shaver, "where do you work? I mean, what do you do?" She was all interest.

"I'm an underwriter at an insurance company."

"Well, that's a kickass job you have," she said, unable to conceal hwhat I could tell was total admiration.

"Fate landed me here, said she applying Aqua Di Parma on my chin."I've learnt to like this job though." There weren't the faintest undertones of regret in these words.

"I admire you already." I did envy her, and her work ethic.

"You do?" She asked with delight and a blush. "Thank you."

"You are doing well here?" I said in half a question and half a remark.

"I must say the job is on an even footing. For as long as if sets food on my table and takes care of my needs, without much of a strain, I'm thankful."

With my chin clean, she took the tweezers. She began pulling out with seasoned skill and care, the stubborn overgrown hairs on my face.

Inasmuch as she performed the exercise so tenderly, this did not prevent the pain that accompanied the small surgical procedure. That she was the one doing it, however, tempered the pain, pain that seared through me with a sharp prickly pleasure of every strand uprooted.

A shudder went through me when I realized that miss was attending to me while lewdly looking at me. She would press her body against me so much, as she went about her work. Minutes passed, and now she openly indicated her intent. I looked at her. Our eyes collided. She pressed harder. I waited. Then...it happened. Hastily putting off the equipment, she marched toward me. Another shiver trickled through me. The red flag was up, and dancing. She clasped her right hand with my left, and a frission most ethereal went through me. Miss Daring then grabbed my head by the cheecks, and tilted my face toward hers. Then she planted her mouth onto mine.  That was enough temptation. "Are you sure you want to do this?"  The man was back with his morality.  Ignoring him, I buried my mouth into hers. Our tongues locked. I started eating her lips, as her skilled tongue stroked and defiled the inside of my mouth.  She was a bully. I was hungry. We sucked. We moaned. We worked. Desire was insatiable, sucking irresistible. My heart thumped, thumped with a splitting verve. Blood surged all over, carrying with it the fire that had been built, first slowly, then fast, and spreading it all over to the last cell. Breathing came in fast, short and hard, hoarse spouts. It was heaven with pleasure, hell with insatiety.  She then unbuttoned my shirt, halfway, that my chest hairs were exposed, all the while fastened to the seat, immobile. Her soft warm hands on my thorax were like a potassium ball in water. She started rubbing the hairs, with meaning and supreme prowess, pressing them against my unruly body, and whipping my face with her moist Ricola breath. Her determined hand navigated further south, committing atrocities along its path, and leaving me pitilessly at the very brink. All the while, her sexy eyes of intimidating steadfastness did not depart my countenance, following keenly my reactions. The voyage halted at my navel, whereupon reaching it, the naughty fingers started circling around it, pulling and stroking it in a manner that sent my sense of reason into a forced hiatus. Another fireball built up and quickly threaded to its apex, on the way causing every muscle in my body to tauten and clench, yet sending all nerves to the rooftop of sensation before splattering into billions of tiny fragments of pleasure. I had not known this part of my body to hide such a divine secret. It was a massive discovery I made on the night. Passionate smooches She firmed me on the seat, setting my feet apart and up so that my profile rested in the air in a U-shape. She was an expert in this "sudden" enterprise. Aphrodite herself. Her eyes emitted fire as she worked with intent and savagery,nailing indeterminable kisses on my chest and driving me irreparably crazy. That the door was wide ajar did not trouble us in the least, our rational thinking so eclipsed by the blinding sensation of the moment. Every cell in me was goddamned sinewy, brutalised and condemned into infinite ripples of incredible zing that erupted from across my body with indescribable spontaneity. She slightly unbuttoned her top and...that went with my rationality. Her cleavage was the sort for which one would pawn their decency, least without a second thought, and the duo of apples on her chest, their life too. Decidedly juicy. Wickedly yummy. An enchantment. Pick your choice. I was immediately drunk in this sorcery of allure. She pulled my trousers zipper down, and slipped her hand into my pants! Hell, I knew the height of indecency I was diving into. But what decency did I care for now? As her deft hands exercised  their mastery around my pecker's shaft and bulb, my pair dug into the thick of her overflowing crimson hair, and mouth into the feast before me: her chest. My lick of her now devilishly inflamed nipples was a touch of gold, which she expressed with a sharp short moan of pleasure. Her cheeks had flushed from pink to white, breathing doubled as her heart-rate tripled in its throbs.  Her black pinafore dress, as though by design, spilled from her body, falling freely to the floor. Holy macarone! Only a while ago draped like an honourable woman, her stark nude and oh-hell-attractive silhouette now stared at me with both enticement and begging. There was no earthly way of helping this. I -or we - had plunged headlong into a gaping pit of fathomless iniquity. What remained now was to look ahead, focus and address myself to the task before me. Obediently. How to start was clean beyond the range of my unsteady thinking. I let out a deep sigh to firm myself. Vanity. In what was a spectacular fit of lunacy, missy scooped me from the seat, and in a flash, hauled me to an inside room. Now at the height of enchantment, I was flung into what looked like a massage bed, where I was pinned under her unbelievably strong arms. I was suddenly a captive, a captive of heinous sexual manouvres.  She then fell over me, with hunger and voracity. Behind the guise of the wall, our transgression ran riotous. Soon we were rolling in bed, kissing and sucking, kicking with wild bliss, and surrendering ourselves into the deep of this sexual assault with abandon. Drunk with lust and desire, I was dealing with her overly hot and needy body, a body that not even a dedicated archangel in their right senses would turn down. For nearly one hour, we laboured to cool the virtually interminable fire of our corporeal desires, until we could have no more of it. My lady was a generous giver, and, lithe like a jaguar and hell indefatigable, played with flawless adroitness. I hammered, and dug, and excavated her bottomless wells of bliss. Until no energy was left in my muscles. After the act What was left of us were powerless panting, sweating and barely breathing masses of our exhaustively used selves. For the next few moments, we lay in the bed resting, saying to each other small, sweet, silly things of an enamoured pair. Whether I would get the haircut finished or otherwise was totally unclear to me. Sitting under this queen of seduction again would end up in all too familiar style. I might never get a full hair cut. Peradventure her barbershop doubled up as a brothel, where this goddess satiated her copious libido with her male clients. It is at this point that it first occurred to me that we had not used rubber, my first ever such risqué encounter. Fuck! Yes, fuck we had, minus rubber. Quite strangely though, I was certain I would cheerfully go for one more trip, and another, if she so wished. She did invite me. Who was I to reject? The early part of the night was spent letting ourselves loose in this erotic orchestra of unparalleled proportions. It was way past mid night when all our cartridges had been spent. Unable to fire anymore, for soreness in the right places, fatigue all over and hunger, we retreated from the battlefield. We just lay talking idly, cuddling, and getting lazy. In what was a procedural oddity, we got down to a chat, to make proper acquaintance of each other. That Lady Agatha was a kindly and witty shot was my instant conclusion. The opportunistic venereal gymnastics aside, miss was just the admirable fellow. Manners, politeness and self-belief were her indiputable virtues. Insatiable bastards After the shave -which had taken a record six hours- we had dinner together at a nearby food court, interacted more, played even more footsie, and exchanged our cards. Thereupon I stumbled into my car. It had been a darker and longer emotional combat, bigger than the Star-Wars, to let go each other, stuck and twitterpated as we were. As I fired up the engine, my head smote with no end. I did not know whether to be guilty or grateful. I thrived in confusion. I drove away determined to put the dramatic one-night-stand behind me. See Agatha again though I would, MUST. It was a sworn obligation.