Short and round she is. To worsen it, she cannot even pretend with a high heels; at least give me the privilege to pretend there is nothing to be noticed in her brief stature. Put her by side with a bottle of Hi Malt, only an individual with no respect for truth will divorce their resemblance. The only difference is that she is a breathing Hi Malt. I do not patronize short, round women. Nothing demonic about them, neither are they lesser of beings. It’s just that I cannot reconcile them with my affinity. Let’s just say my humble taste for women cannot afford the luxury of befriending one and to think of bedding one is not anywhere near my table of imaginations.
BUT! There is always a BUT to every personal rule. She was that BUT in my supposed rule of coquetry because she had an intimidating butt and a striking pair of fleshy oranges on her chest. With these two arsenals, her height was something to embrace in warmth.
After consistent pressure from her, I gave in to the desire for a closer acquaintance. My lack of enthusiasm was chiefly due to her height and her religious gauge was so high that she refuses to disappoint in adding something ridiculous to every line of her conversation. The later, I was willing to give a blind eye just as I kept my sour unbelief under my pouch. Besides, I have come to note a reoccurring trendy jinx where the women I like the most are either miles away or won’t return the favour. But the ones I do not like are busy on my throat tendering much affection only for this Son of David right here to reject their amorous offer. In cases where I repent and decide to return to my admirer, it usually turns out that their affection has expired and replaced with a cobra venom. Meet the comic reality of my relationship life.
The day came when we were to nail the mutual fever; to do what males and females are biologically programmed to do behind closed doors and in between the sheets. We were just getting warmed-up before proceeding to the field to play the real match. In her garrulous style, she began dropping tales left, right and centre. I wasn’t just listening. When Jonnie boy is awake, every other senses is at stale. But it was short-lived; she knocked me out of my Jonnie-boy state of mind.
“God loves me so much”, she said “I survived a car accident. Everyone died, including the driver and my twin sister. It was just me that survived without a scratch or a mark; God is great” she announced as I was about to do some unbuttoning. To be sure of what I heard, I paused and looked her in the eyes “So what do you say about your twin sister that died in the crash? God loves you more than her and the others? Why would God save you alone and allow your twin to die when He could save everyone from the auto-crash?” “God saved me because I have purpose”, she defended. “So your sister and the others had no purpose? They were useless and lower beings that deserved anything but life? If you were your sister and you died in the crash and then heard your sister say she survived because she had purpose, how will you feel?” I quizzed as my anger was boiling. She looked away with snobbery and with no repentance, chorused “that is my belief and God kept me for a purpose”. It was at that point I was beginning to struggle with self-control.
Even Jonnie boy was irritated, he ran back home out of shock. My hormones were cold, the drive was killed. I searched for tolerance, I found her not. I searched for pretense; she absconded, leaving me in the mist of this inner rage. But thanks to my palms, she held it together despite when that silent voice of impulse whispered for a slap. “If I should slap you now, will God save you from my belief and justice?” I whispered in my mind.
“You disappoint me, Kate. I want you to leave now and very quickly before you seduce my hands on you”, I continued. “If this is your idea of God, imaginary beliefs or what makes you godly, then get thee behind me God!” The look on my face was very convincing of the outcome if we spend two more minutes in that room. There is a thin line between sanity and insanity. Whenever your composure is about to detonate, the last hope to clutch on is your right thinking. Hold on to it hard while you look at the consequences of your detonation.
Culled from ~MEMOIRS OF A BADT GUY~ by Imoh “Son of David”
By Imoh “Son of David”