MANICHAEAN
02-14-2011, 01:58 AM
CONSUMMATE ORBS.
It was one o’clock in the morning and the Lebanese run night club was beginning to empty. The last of the night fighters, were surveying anxiously for what remnants of manhood were left that could pay the bills of African daily survival in the shacks of Lagos. Smoke hung heavy in the air along with a perceptible tang of sweat, and on the disco floor a few middle aged expats were under the illusion that they were in rhythm with female companions, whose body language was somewhat akin to barnacles clinging against a ships hull.
At the bar Vince was slouched, endeavouring occasionally to stand up straight and give the impression of being in control. He had been drinking heavily from one watering hole to another and was now past pretending he was alright with his wife having taken a lover.
He felt a tongue in his left ear and turned. Wide eyed & suggestive she looked at him, the look of a hunter under a façade of assumed coyness. The usual banter took place regards how handsome she thought he was and how she would like to go with him. Basically, he was not interested. Yet something in his feeling sorry for himself, led him to feel he needed the assurance of sleeping next to another being, even if it was being paid for.
Detached emotionally they left the club together, each with their own selfish agenda. It was an arrangement, and each played their parts according to that time worn script.
He drove the pickup, somewhat unsteadily back to his house in the suburbs of Ilapegu and she perched besides him content at the prospect of being able to pay tomorrows rent. The Taurag ma gardi was on duty at the gate. He greeted Vince with his waved machete and gave the woman no acknowledgement at all.
They climbed the stairs to the top main bedroom & Vince went to use the bathroom. He came back in, still shaky on his feet, the light from the bedside lamp throwing a pinkish glow on the woman sitting on the side of the bed. He raised her up and turning her around, unzipped the back of her long green wrapper style dress. The back was strong and supple and the curve of the spine as he unsheathed it, sparked an element of interest in his eyes. He let the dress fall to the floor around her feet & she stepped out from its protective encirclement. As he fumbled with the bra strap, he noted how tense it was, despite being strong in design & elastic in composition. He slipped off the bra from behind and his hands encircled.
They were the most perfect breasts he had ever come across. Like a man who is blind, he cupped them in equipoise, judging purely by feel and not by sight. Cool and tense, they were soft to the touch and reassuring in their substance.
He cursed himself that, being so drunk he was incapable. Like a boy with his first bike, or a young man with his first sports car he knew the significance of that which was standing before him, and yet all he felt was being physically nauseous and wanting to throw up.
He sat on the bed, his head spinning. The woman watched him coldly & dispassionately. He lay back. The ceiling spun more than the overhead fan. Then he passed out.
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The early starkness of African sunshine entered through a gap in the heavy drapes. He open his eyes slowly with great care.
“Where am I?”
“Who am I?”
“What am I?”
He looked round the room. The woman had left and taken her chest with her, along with some of his wife’s clothes. It was a new day, he had a bad head, & he felt sordid. More so, that he had not tasted the sovereign body of the whore with the tongue of felicity.
It was one o’clock in the morning and the Lebanese run night club was beginning to empty. The last of the night fighters, were surveying anxiously for what remnants of manhood were left that could pay the bills of African daily survival in the shacks of Lagos. Smoke hung heavy in the air along with a perceptible tang of sweat, and on the disco floor a few middle aged expats were under the illusion that they were in rhythm with female companions, whose body language was somewhat akin to barnacles clinging against a ships hull.
At the bar Vince was slouched, endeavouring occasionally to stand up straight and give the impression of being in control. He had been drinking heavily from one watering hole to another and was now past pretending he was alright with his wife having taken a lover.
He felt a tongue in his left ear and turned. Wide eyed & suggestive she looked at him, the look of a hunter under a façade of assumed coyness. The usual banter took place regards how handsome she thought he was and how she would like to go with him. Basically, he was not interested. Yet something in his feeling sorry for himself, led him to feel he needed the assurance of sleeping next to another being, even if it was being paid for.
Detached emotionally they left the club together, each with their own selfish agenda. It was an arrangement, and each played their parts according to that time worn script.
He drove the pickup, somewhat unsteadily back to his house in the suburbs of Ilapegu and she perched besides him content at the prospect of being able to pay tomorrows rent. The Taurag ma gardi was on duty at the gate. He greeted Vince with his waved machete and gave the woman no acknowledgement at all.
They climbed the stairs to the top main bedroom & Vince went to use the bathroom. He came back in, still shaky on his feet, the light from the bedside lamp throwing a pinkish glow on the woman sitting on the side of the bed. He raised her up and turning her around, unzipped the back of her long green wrapper style dress. The back was strong and supple and the curve of the spine as he unsheathed it, sparked an element of interest in his eyes. He let the dress fall to the floor around her feet & she stepped out from its protective encirclement. As he fumbled with the bra strap, he noted how tense it was, despite being strong in design & elastic in composition. He slipped off the bra from behind and his hands encircled.
They were the most perfect breasts he had ever come across. Like a man who is blind, he cupped them in equipoise, judging purely by feel and not by sight. Cool and tense, they were soft to the touch and reassuring in their substance.
He cursed himself that, being so drunk he was incapable. Like a boy with his first bike, or a young man with his first sports car he knew the significance of that which was standing before him, and yet all he felt was being physically nauseous and wanting to throw up.
He sat on the bed, his head spinning. The woman watched him coldly & dispassionately. He lay back. The ceiling spun more than the overhead fan. Then he passed out.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
The early starkness of African sunshine entered through a gap in the heavy drapes. He open his eyes slowly with great care.
“Where am I?”
“Who am I?”
“What am I?”
He looked round the room. The woman had left and taken her chest with her, along with some of his wife’s clothes. It was a new day, he had a bad head, & he felt sordid. More so, that he had not tasted the sovereign body of the whore with the tongue of felicity.