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.

RAMBLINGS OF A CITY SCRIBE

Catherine.

That’s her name. Or Kate. Her buddies, out of fondness, or ridicule, fancy calling her thus. She likes it.

She stretches and yawns. She stretches again. And lets out a bigger yawn. She casts the duvet away.

It’s midday. 

Kate has been trying to get out of bed, vainly. Her stinging headache has refused to let go her.

She must wrest herself from bed.

Her body is aching, and detained in an overmastering grogginess, from toe to scalp. She has a vertigo arrest whose source she cannot trace. The stubborn migraine from last evening has refused to fade away even after nearly ten hours of sleep. The soreness between her legs is still raw.

She summons the little energy left in her bones and jumps out.

It’s a Thursday.

She is dressed in her pink PJs, her favourite. She looks hell sexy, despite the sleepiness hanging on her eyes.

She rushes to the loo. She pees on herself before she is able to get there. No big deal, is it? It is when removing her wet underpants that she realises something quite unusual.

She removes the blue hot underwear and stares at it for long. Calvin Klein. It is Kenny’s. She put on it after their savage sexual drama last night.

Kate is in the enticing albeit outrageous practice of carrying home hot underwear of all delicious men she sleeps with. These are kept as souvenirs, and always give her a certain sense of pride, conquest, and fulfilment to look at. Such human depravity.
 

Last evening, she got home at the evil hour: 4am. Dropped by Kenny in his car. 

Looking at herself on the mirror in the dressing room, she is . she curses the image staring at her with bony severity. It looks as though it would jump out and strangle her. Her hair is oh-hell-scraggly, her neck bedecked with love bites, eyes bloodshot and face flushed. 

Kate closes her eyes to erase Kenny from her mind. It hurts to think about him. He is Lancelot-hot, and impossibly loving. Kenny is a banker, so young yet so highly established. His success in his career belies his age. He’s not thirty five yet. 

Sexual onslaught, alcohol and smoking of last night are why. Yester night was heaven with pleasure. The sex was oh-hell-hot. For Kate, nothing would come between her and hot, spontaneous sex. Absolutely nothing under the sun.

He is married to an artist. The couple has two kids. This is what sickens Kate to imagine. That all good men are always taken is something this lass has never been able to wrap her head around. What is left in the dating scene are ravens, wolfs and souls of no character, men of no half credibility or discipline: scavengers and broke dependent men who are so shameless to borrow the wherewithal for upkeep from their well-to-do girlfriends.

She cringes at the thought.

Kate has Kenny at her disposal though. With a sigh of triumph, she leaves the room.  

Her stomach is thriving with emptiness, and rumbles. She must wolf down a morsel.

Putting water to boil, she steps out to the neighbourhood kiosk to buy items for breakfast.

At the shop, she asks for eggs, margarine, coffee, and bread. She remembers that her supply of sugar was depleted yesterday.

She asks the shopkeeper, Gilbert, to allow her sugar on credit, promising to settle the bill later in the day. The guy, who is in the habit of leering at her when she is not looking, readily accepts.

In a short while, breakfast is on the table.

Kate's breakfast

For a famished soul, she descends on it with relish and every mark of starvation.

Her phone vibrates. A text message.

It is from Kenny.

Hey, queen.

How do you think last night was? I think it was incredible.

Would you fancy a repeat tonight?

Good day!

 A smile of genuine glee seizes her countenance. She loses herself as her long tremulous fingers type:

Hello, knight.

Last night was full of delight.

I would give anything to have it again.

Good day too!

The life plot of this lass is simple. She contents herself with movies, catching every series that is out in market. All youths do nowadays.

Music is her Holy Grail. Her playlist on every single instance runs into several thousands of songs, mostly classics.

And books. Yes, books! Unlike most young people, books are this lady’s favourite staple. She will tell you that reading is the lifeblood of any meaningful writing. It is upon this wisdom that her small bookcase in her exquisitely furnished living room is overflowing with classical literature tittles, from Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, Jane Austen to E, James, JK Rowling and...Gosh, the list is infinite.

Catherine finished her university degree the year before. She took a course in journalism, to her father’s utter disgust. They fell out. Then invaded a passion for writing. In college, she was a renowned scribe for varsity publications.

She is a top blogger. Kate fell for blogging for it is less tedious, earns an easy buck and she has her freedom. She also writes academic papers for overseas students, conducts research for her online clients, and, yes, gets paid for, say loudly, plagiarised, but ingeniously edited works.

Over the past two years, her clientele base has grown from leaps into bounds. She is now a force to reckon with, her credibility transcending borders.

What more could she ever ask for? She irrevocably abhors the daily grind of travelling to town to work for monthly remuneration. It is a hustle she cannot stomach, too bad for her bone.

And sleep. She slumbers for, sometimes, eighteen hours! That’s her lifestyle. And give a hoot she doesn’t.

Kate hasn’t found her man yet. She is not in any hurry though. Yet she has her corporeal desires and sexual needs, which must, repeat must, be fulfilled. There are countless men out there who crave for the oats, and are ready and eager to put down handsome cheddar on them.

She has rent to pay, staying in a fairly plush neighbourhood in Nairobi’s Karen Estate. To most shots her age, living here would be a pure flight of fancy. She calls a cab whenever she has ramblings in town. Eat she must, and a fine diner is this brunet.

A lady who’s conscious of her looks, she must get her hair coiffure, nails done and looks spruced up. Say weekly. Kate is one hell of a lady who cannot keep a sane head on an empty pocket. All these needs, and others.

She is a fucking head’s turner and of amazingly great shape, you would put her down as a work-out buff. Providence gifted Kate the wares for which most chicks are often ready to pawn their lives.

After hours of watching the epic blockbuster Empire, she drifts off to sleep.

this queen has mustered the knack to survive, and even thrive, in this mad metropolis. And to survive in Nairobi requires a great deal of aggressiveness, acumen and speed. She is brainy, and does not keep her grey matter is not for exhibition.

Like any go-getter, Kate has learnt the invaluable art of using her beauty as leverage against men. She is not a sex worker, no sir! She does not operate on the cheap as to leap into bed at the stimulus of a buck flashed by a man. Nay. She knows who to lie with, and this, strictly, depends on the other’s charisma, intelligence and elegance. His bank balance too tallies. And it better be colossal. Aren’t her needs equally colossal?

Kate is your regular highly gregarious fellow. She boasts buddies across the city, usually fellow fun-mongers, in the country, and courtesy of her finesse in writing, across the globe.

Trudging the streets with: gung ho

Her outgoing nature recognises no bounds. It does not wear her out to engage anyone online for hours on end, providing her interlocutor is smart, creative, unpredictable, and can afford several slacks of hearty jokes.

Missy though can have a heart of steel. She suffers no fools pleasantly. For her, it is as easy as pie to banish, usually dispassionately, anyone she deems a nuisance. Men who attempted to hit on her when she was not in her right state of mind live to rue their advances.  Poor them!

Yet you cannot lure this lady. Not with all the diamond in West Africa. If her heart is not into you, or whatever enterprise you have under your hat, her rigidity will disgust you.

It is on this account that she has lost so many friends, in college, in the streets, and even, non-regrettably, her own family. She fell out with her pappy, telling him to his face what a bugger he was! Such assertive is mademoiselle.

It is half-four when she wakes up.

Kenny called thrice. She was fast asleep. He has left her three text messages, all which are a reminder of their meeting. Ken suggests their favourite rendesvous Club Cnister.

Mademoiselle apologises for the missed calls, and proposes Arctic Summer as the alternative; to break the monotony of visiting this joint.

Kenny consents where they agree to meet at 7:45pm that evening.

Pronto, and beaming with the expectation of another hot night, she dashes to the shower.

She hums a song while cleaning. She allows her mind to wander on the erotic loose, imagining how marvellous it will be to have Kenny with her, inside her. She squirms at the imagination, and as water bursts from the tap on top of her head, a sensual tightening, a strong clench of her muscles bursts with vigour from her body.

Kate showering

She has had an orgasm in the bathroom! Only out of thinking about this god. How he sends her to paradise!

Smiling at her own stupidity and pleasure, she showers on, her hymn now forgotten.

She inspects her phone after the shower. Another missed call.

This one is from home. Her dad was calling.

She ignores this and pushes her phone away with puerile irritation.

Damn him, she mumbles.

Unaffected, she goes on to ready herself.

7pm is two hours away. But Kate must leave for town earlier. She needs to get her nails manicured and legs smoothed, at a friend’s salon.

Presently, Gillian, a girlfriend of hers, calls.

 

Gillian, or Gil, Kate's BFF

She picks it up almost too swiftly, and speaks with near silly excitement while adjusting the piece of magic sexiness that is her new purple brassier. It is a snare for Kenny. Upon seeing it, this will doubtless hold his hormones at ransom.

The two birds agree to meet in town inside thirty minutes. Gossip is their favourite fodder.

Mademoiselle picks the briefest ensembles her wardrobe has. Her application of makeup is taken a notch higher, if not several. Her heels must be the highest. The cleavage must be shinier, her hair the scragglier. She does all this with deliberateness. Today she will have men in town drool at her, Kenny eat out of her feet.

Further sprucing up her looks,for she must be on the sharp today, she looks at herself in the mirror. The replica is just in gorgeous shape. It contends her.

Her phone rings. The cabbie is already at her doorstep.

It is 5:50pm when she grabs her handbag and phone, and out she steps.

In town, she meets her BFF, with who she goes to a coffee shop, grab for themselves Espresso Romano cups and head on to the salon. The two march across and through the streets with something of pride and self importance and showboating, oh-queens-of-delectable-meat.

 They pass near corridors of boutiques and shops of fancy accessories, stopping by to espy and admire new arrivals.

As they trudge through the busy twilight city avenues, the pair draws lascivious looks from people. Men particularly are held in a near trance, as they turn heads to watch the two blithe babes.

Kate and Gil admiring things in town

continues...