He shoves his uncut joystick into my mouth. I awkwardly
comply to give it some wet tongue action. But it shortly occurs to me that it
is not the most impressive in the market. That
heifer in Dr. Kitch’s (I'm not a qualified physician) examination room would definitely never pull out this
needle. I mean, I have seen things. Don’t get me wrong, I am protective of
my ‘assets’ and all but let’s just say if he went south on me he would get a
better deep throat deal. The thing dangling before me is substandard. I would never even choke on it, Nkt!
"But
the Bible says, even though we may blow it every day, God's mercy is fresh for
us every morning". – Kathie Lee Gifford
********
Previously on
Shades of Nunu...
Damn bitch, you
just landed yourself a rich husband!
His
immaculate black moustache looks awesomely plastered against biracial
complexion, way better than his Grindr pic professed.
But
then, is the Mercedes clouding my Judgment?
“You are not such a friendly person, huh?” It
comes off more of a statement rather than a question.
I
cling onto my bag as I take a seat on the soft leather couch. Feels fucking
good against my ass!
“…I however
noticed you just kicked off your shoes but I’ve aligned them to face the wall”.
The Fuck?
********
Nunu: noun. A term of endearment like honey, baby, sweetie, or lovebug (Urban Dictionary)
Kwaito music plays in
the background. The speakers really do justice
to its quality. I think to myself swinging side to side on a stool whose
leather seat matches the kitchenette’s marble surface (I suppose serves as his
dinner table), its polished support reflecting the bright balls of light in his
kitchen. He looks at me with a half-smile as his neat fingers deftly knead the already
marinated steak he just retrieved from the refrigerator. Oh Lawd, South Africans and their Braai! It smells divine though. “Would
you mind helping me with the tomatoes and green pepper?” He interrupts my gluttonous
thoughts. I quickly agree as I generally look idle. Plus what an opportunity to showcase that if you ever put a ring on it, you
will never starve! From the corner of my eye I notice he is stealing
glances at the exercise. I look up and he smirks. I think he is proud even. I finish
and hand over the stuff. He places the meat in a fancy
non-sticky pan with grill imprints and places it in the oven whose grey hue
matches that of the refrigerator then grabs his nearly empty glass of a blend
of bourbon and sugar free Red Bull, pulls up his sagging sweat pants and perches
on the stool on my right for that getting-to-know-you conversation. The long
and short of this is: I have been cooked for a gourmet meal on a first date. Man, that medium-rare steak! And the Greek salad! And yes, the dessert indeed felt like an angel
peeing on your tongue (and just to be clear, I am not into golden showers or
shit like that). Sorry Kenya, nyama
choma is might officially be tacky!
After dinner and a brief
kitchen banter, he winds a switch that dims the kitchen area lights as we
retreat to the leather couch. He has decided we do a movie. In my head, I search
for a stack of DVD’s or memory sticks around the massive but slim screen when I
realise he’s already making a selection of movies from a silver remote with
almost no buttons only using a light tap. I note the black box engraved with the
letters ‘tv’ next to the all-too-familiar Apple logo. Now, pardon my accidental crass, Apple’s got a fucking TV? I
commit my memory to google it next time I’m online. He even scans through a
list of just released films before settling for a romantic choice in the gay
category. Though I feign nonchalance, I am fascinated recalling how the call centre guys at MultiChoice had been bothering me every month for not renewing my GoTv set top box subscription. He offers to cuddle
me, a request I gladly yield to by sinking into his broad chest frame. His bare
arms are silky smooth as they rest against my forearms. I know it’s on record that I love my men just like my coffee – Black. Let
the record now reflect that I no longer mind the coffee having three or so spots of
milk. Our kids would look great. They got to take my height though. My
mind registers his nice fresh baby scent. His moustache hair roughly rubs
against my forehead where he has decided to rest his chin in between puffing out
billows of his cigarette. I shall not
complain today. This night is turning
out to be exquisite!
He is playing with my
short hair when the movie ends and politely requests me to allow him to go take
a shower. I am disobliging, the movie having ended at a scene where the two men
were making out at a park. I blurt out how I would want to visit there someday.
He easily tells me the name of the park located in New York acknowledging he’s already
been there. “If you like we could travel
together in the future, you will just need to worry about your air ticket to
get to me but I will take care of everything else throughout the tour”. I am gobsmacked at his generous offer. A jet
set lifestyle would favour my ratings in these gay gossip circles to hit the roof! “You are too kind, I’ll think about it,” I
supply subtly remembering how one of my New Year’s resolution was to always
make a brief prayer before going on any date with a man:
Dear God, may this be the good man that I yearn for a Husband. Like you made Esther queen, may I be his Prince-designate, amen.
And God is clearly meeting His end of the bargain so far. Fine,
that last part felt a tad selfish but aren’t we all supposed to aim for the
skies even when it comes to men? Fapping oneself to sleep is just not my portion.
“Look at you trying to
make me all soft. We are even holding hands,” he says sarcastically giving me an
uncertain lingering look. Somewhat offended, I immediately withdraw my hands
from his opting to cross them on my chest and sit upright effectively getting me out
of the hitherto cuddling position. “I was only joking baba,” he says forcing my
right hand back to his making my face almost (awkwardly) land on his. Wow, his eyes are so clean. I expect him
to kiss my yearning lips but he opts to explore my fingers. Shit! His palm is pretty rough. “I do
hard stuff, unlike you who is pampered,” he states running his hand on my palm. We remain in this position until in one swift motion he stands
lifting me up, then places me back on the couch and says he’ll be in the shower
if I get lonely. He walks away his sagging pants revealing his butt crack.
I walk past the rich
cream bath tub lined up with all manner of toiletries mostly with peculiar exotic names
towards the transparent glass enclosure at the far end of the wet room. I quietly
pull the glass door to get in. He is naked, his face full of froth from the
sweet smelling shower gel. His ass has some sort of crumples and could use
regular utkatasana (chair) poses we
usually do in yoga that I hear are the journey to the perfect bubble butt. Both his
shoulders have some neatly done tribal tattoos whose artistry is commendable
thanks to his light complexion.
While still within the walk
in shower, he helps me dry myself. We sit on a brown leather surface that I
soon realise has chests of drawers underneath with a range of cosmetics. I
settle for a moisturiser and musky roll on. From another drawer he retrieves two white
warm bathrobes. He holds it behind my back for me to slip into the same. I tighten the two straps around but it still feels
weird being naked underneath. He slips into his and does the same. I notice
similar initials of his name from earlier sewn on his left breast. I figure mine
is plain. “If you become mine, you’ll have your initials too”. He volunteers. “You
have odd propositions,” I say as I roll my eyes. “That is really rude,” he
cries.
We are lying on the couch
in our bathrobes. He’s smoking. I am against his chest attempting to operate
the sophisticated TV. “You smoke a lot…” I tell him but he mistakes it for a
question and counters with a response that he only smokes his cigarettes
halfway and in some sort of pride displays a tray full of half burnt cigarette
butts. I notice his glass is empty and offer to replenish his drink. He sips my
mixture approvingly. “You look happy and very comfortable here. You know you can have all of
this,” he observes. “Hmm…what is the catch?” I ask. He stands up smiling and extends his hand to me. “Dance with me,” he orders. From the screen, it is a song by a Musa featuring Robbie Malinga starts:
♫♫ Mbambe ngesandla [Hold their hand]Umbheke emehlweni njalo… [Stare into their eyes]
The dance feels weird
but I guess it is his idea of making it romantic. His moves are slow but coordinated. I
follow his cue particularly when the song gets to a memorable chorus:
♪♪ Mthande, umuntu wakho [Love your person]… Umcharme njalo, umspoile njalo [Charm them always, spoil them every time]
And boy isn’t it amazing…erm until
I realise I’m getting hard on!
“I want to take you out. I want to take you to
a nice place and show you off to those horny white people!” He says this shortly
after narrating me a tale of how his aunts had to hide him and his siblings
during Apartheid. I somehow can’t comprehend his sudden bile against white folks when his mother is one. He pensively clarifies about his mom’s French
roots saying her only mistake was falling in love with a Zulu man. Noticing how
deep in thought he is, I opt not to pursue the constantly emotive subject further. Apartheid really did a number on South Africans, huh? “I thought we should just stay in spend all the time for ourselves
tonight,” I inform him having realised that I do not have the right outfit to
go out especially if we are going where those Gauteng thots that usually
give people condescending body scans are. “I’ll be by your side the entire
time”. As if reading my mind, he announces that I’ll have one of his shirts.
We head to his bedroom where he opens a dark wooden door that reveals a freaking walk in
closet! The right is donned with neatly arranged designer suits each with a
colour code on the hanger. The left side generally has casual wear and bright
formal shirts with the now-too-familiar inscriptions of his name’s initials
some on the breast pocket, most emblazoned on the sleeve plackets. He opens a
drawer and pulls out a black cotton t-shirt and hands it over to me. I put it
on and if fits my small body frame perfectly revealing conspicuous 'Versace' letters
on my left breast. He asks me to try out some shoes. I settle for some flat
suede wear that match the t-shirt. He unlocks a box of accessories where I
observe he also has three gold watches with spectacular complications. He pulls out
a ring with an amazing black stone and asks me to try it on. Oh my gay god! Is he also going to go down on his knee! I feel it's too much and tell
him it’s an awesome piece of jewelry but that I rarely accessorise as metal reacts with my skin. Oh as if! He helps me remove it off my
finger conceding that it may actually be a bit extreme for a first date. Clearly the whiskey is working. He
settles for some leather bracelet and helps me clip it on my left hand and
tells me to keep it forever as his gift for the lovely evening. I hesitantly
thank him.
The exercise
of dolling me up resumes. He pulls another drawer that reveals neatly arranged inner wear each
in their own space only revealing the brand notably, 2(X)IST, Calvin Klein, Polo
Ralph Lauren etc. "I would like you to put on one of these," he says . I decline reasoning
that underwear are a very personal affair. He is taken aback at my sudden defiance. “But they are new,” he protests. I tell him that I do not dispute that. He
walks out of the closet in a huff. I sit on top of the low seat at the centre of the closet eyeing my new leather bracelet. He returns after about
five minutes dressed up with only his belt undone revealing Ralph Lauren
boxers. He sulkily moves about the closet looking for nothing in particular. “Look at them!" He interrupts my thoughts throwing a handful of white Dolce and Gabbana
briefs my direction but they scatter on my feet. I rise but remain close to
the seat. He moves to where I am. His erstwhile small eyes are now bloodshot and his
once smooth face has reddened even revealing some veins on both sides of his
forehead. He lifts each of the white underwear to my face throwing them on the seat below after
vocally proving how new they are. “You think I would give you my used inner
wears? It’s all designer baby!” He barks, his breathing now harder and he makes no
attempt to move away from me. I realise for the first time, Abner, my ever
protective housemate does not know where I am – and the Westrand isn’t close. I
had lied to him that I would be hanging out with ‘friends’ until late. I commit to always keep him in the loop on my whoring
schedules if I get
out of this alive. I owe him that. If
the just revealed monster before me turns out to be a serial
killer I may never be found especially this being one of Johannesburg’s most prestigious address
that I had never been to or even heard about. Our eyes remain transfixed on each
other. I take a step away from him towards his designer suits. Hope my family buries me in the deep claret
one. I am afraid…very afraid and for what? Ngothas (underwear)?
To be continued…
Cole