He’s heaving above me. The only other sound in the room is the slap of his skin against mine. I look at the ceiling, my hands by my side. What would my mother in the village think? What would my local church think? Goodness! I would scandalize my mother, she wouldn’t hear the end of it from the other women in the choir. Would old papa be able to show face at the Town square?
Tears threaten to spill, but no! We’re not going there. Hold it in, hold it in. They manage to well on my eyes, and the figure above me is distorted. I wish it would disappear.
Ah, but what are wishes, if not lies created to hold false hopes. All lies. What are promises, but more lies.
“I promise to take care of her. Oh, she’ll be magnificent. She’s very talented. They’ll love her!” Huh! Bloody relatives! Only good for adding suffering to a family. Naïve us, trusting her smiles, her bloody promises, her gifts from the city. If only my parents knew! If only I could tell them that it is the angels that shouldn’t be trusted. Their deceptive looks, their charming smiles, their open hands. If only they knew that within those hands, traps lie.
And here I was, the girl who had spoken of being a neurosurgeon in a class of village pupils, all alike, all thinking being a neurosurgeon or a doctor would end the suffering of our families.
Here I was, the naïve girl who had fell in love with skyscrapers, not knowing the evil that lay within.
Here I was, opening legs without question, giving pleasure but not receiving it. An object, a sinner! With no future, other than of opening legs. Nothing good to offer, but what lay between open legs.
“What’s your job description madam?”
“A 5’4, dark girl with thighs for days. I offer men comfort, let them lay on my bosom and let out the stress of their day, and empty fruits of their loins into my open legs. Summarily, open legs best describes me sir,” and smile.
Curse you auntie, curse you for trapping me into this. Curse you for burning my dreams, and leaving me with useless debris. Curse you and this shameless married man. Curse him and may his wife forgive us, forgive his selfishness.
He doesn’t even care if I’m enjoying this. All he’s doing is thrust. In, out, repeat. Only his pleasure is important. I’m just but a tool, to be used to reach his goal. Huh! At least he has a goal. Me, I have nothing, nothing but today.
When will he be finished? I reach out my hands, my fingers feathery drawing on his skin. I press my lips to his neck, reach my tongue out to lick his skin. He gives a low moan, and I can tell he’s almost there. Anything I can do to end this. And soon, with a low grunt, he’s finished. He stills, breathing heavily, before rolling over to my side and looking at the ceiling.
God! What has my life become. Why do I do this? It disgusts me. He disgusts me. Give me an out. Rewind my life to its village simplicity. Make me a good girl that the church will be proud of. Who knows, I could marry the pastor’s son, as a virgin. My legs closed till marriage. The skin of my legs under my stockings unseen till my wedding night. My lips unmarred by kisses till the pastor’s order at our wedding.