Potable water under the bridge

All it took was to lay my eyes on you, and all the 2008 memories sailed back. That brief five seconds I held you in my arms felt like infinity and right there I knew I’d be seeing you again, very soon. That knowledge became a reality that night and the day after until I realised, just like it once dawned on me seven years ago, we’re going nowhere slowly.

What is different this time around is the fact that I am wide awake and for once it looks as if you’re wounded by my maturity and disappointed that I found it easy to leave and never called; so much so you saw it fitting to antagonize my unfamiliar demeanors.

I’ll admit, I missed you. In fact, I want to be with you right this minute. Perhaps this is possible in my thirties – not in my twenties. Maybe you really are the love of my life and that your lingering taste in my mouth will be something I invigorate for as long as I find you sexually attractive. It’s also possible that you and I will merely live in sin and will continue to regularly make romantic and sexual overtures towards each other, and subsequently live to be loathed by many.

Drafting this post, it feels like I’m 22 years old all over again. God knows; I see you, I just want to fuck your brains out. The fact that your memories of me are simply the best and that in your mind I’m an angel is not helping. The fact that we both know that, every now and then, I romanticize the idea of having you stimulate my anterior rectal wall is not helping. The fact that there the question of whether or not I’d enjoy this remains a mystery is not helping.

One minute, I see us working. But knowing that you have no intention to even try and understand the concept of conciliation in our situation dislocates all prospects. Honestly, I despise this about you – which makes me wonder why I still hold you in such high regard to the extent that your soft sneeze would tear the impenetrable membrane that covers my heart.

Other times, the reality is inevitable and of course excruciating just by observing my friends’ facial expressions whenever your name comes up then I’m subjected to “are you okay?” and “say one word, and I’ll make him disappear” or “you don’t have to see him” sentiments. This is all because they care. Yet, here we are; entertaining the idea of making it work knowing very well this would never work. My poor friends…

Man, I love you. But this has to stop.

You have to work with me and help me let you go. Please help me stop hoping that one day you and I will run away together. Help me stop thinking that one day you will change for me or that I’d ever accept your irrational and selfish justifications.

There is a high possibility I’m lying to myself and that I’m fighting the inescapable; you and I truly belong together. Perhaps, I have to go back and experience once more what used to be in order to swiftly move on to the next chapter. A big part of me wishes that I’d pretend to make it work and have you hurt me in every sense of the word. Maybe then, it would be easy letting you go. But I also know for sure that doing this will damage my career; the one thing that seems to bring me constant joy. So, no.

I don’t know what to do.

Happy read!

The intolerable throbbing discomfort of love

In my experience, and in a world where narrow-mindedness holds power, nothing beats being in love; nothing beats being in love with another man and nothing beats getting hurt by another man.

So many of us find sanctuary in love while this remains the scariest territory for some. It is in love that I cry, despite being duped to believe positivity is supreme. From my face, I have wiped tears of joy and I have cleared my dotted cheeks tears of sorrow. At present, I still live to believe love is the only reason I willing step out of bed to pursue obligations.

I grew up meticulously loved. I grew up around love. I grew up with love. Yet, love remain one phenomenon I struggle to comprehend. As such, I respect love and I’m shit scared of falling in love; that time my past – and the various bedrooms I have walked in – betray this fear. Hard.  

Take me back to when I was inexperienced and immature, I utter these words each time I am hurt by another man. Yet, I look around and apparently something in me continues to entice the same species I intend to escape.

I cannot continue from here…                       

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Mr. Leadership,

I see greed and silver coating your tribal hands, fiercely.

Why is it then that my palm awkwardly covers the shame and guilt on my face?

What is wrong with my face? What is right with your hands?
 

What is this poverty of which we speak?

When your feet are flooded with the water we drink?

Who is this victim to whom we refer xa eyakhw’ inzalo ixukuxa ngobisi?

 

Yintoni na isisele xa izidywili zimunguny' iqhosh’ elingenamngxunya?

Yinton’ iqhosha elingenamngxunya kwiintsana eziqhel’ ukuhlafun’ iimpukane?

Iyintoni yona inkolo kulowo ungenasono?

 

Take my damn hand, lead me on and bend me over.

The truth I hold will never unfold.

My wasted penis throbs at the sound of your monologues.

 

I could cite excitement, but I’m in pain.

I could correctly rape newness to restoration.

But, what is to come then when I could never clean what I could have in the shower?

 

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To the God(z)

Realness was redefined when you bumped me.

What I knew came to never be.

What was strange came to be.

Realness was redefined when you bumped me.

You found my eyes, and I found God.

You lived so I can know you to be real.

You gave so I could learn to receive.

The frame of mind, all around me, is new.

You call it fresh, I say it’s love.

That which you inserted in me.

The same you welcomed inside you.

Songs need not make sense anymore.

You became the fundamental lyric my lips serenaded.

My mere existence transformed your frown.

You gave me your hand, a job I reimbursed.

Realness was redefined when I gave you the time.

Vaguely, we may have created light. But we had a life.

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Lovers on the cross

I suspend myself and swing my arms all over the bed,

My back pressing the sheets, his eyeballs lust over my nipples,

That time, his testicles hang on a cross

A cross nailed by a man whose name rings the doorbells of the past

 

The roles have changed. I am the man he is

And, he has become me, but his presence has otherwise multiplied.

I am skinny, boy you’re so fat.

 

He approaches. There is middle ground.

He finds me. I see him, coming.

He mumbles words evidently of erotic nature. There is middle ground.

I find him. He sees me, coming.

 

Happy read!

Happy hour, in his absence

With Jesus it has always been easy to deal with. His death was possibly drilling over two thousand years ago and as that of my father’s whose departure robbed me of a proper man’s touch before I could even learn to comprehend life and why was I so small while everything and everyone else was so gigantic.

In the case of Madlamini, I had no choice but to man up for my mother. I had to be the man she has always urged me to be. She was mourning her mother and my shoulders had to be broader to act as sanctuary for her fragile bone structure.

For something that happened almost five years ago, in my mother view the memory is still fresh and hurtful each day a silhouettes emulating her mother’s existence.

I assumed it gets easier, but apparently it never does.

One Saturday, in October, conceded all prospects of absolute fun, alcohol and gossip. The start, of course, was exciting and I found myself dubbing the day orgasmic.

All it took was the sight of a long lost acquaintance from the past for the day to swiftly press my emotions to the point of misery theme.

I had never been close to the woman who stood in front of me, but for one moment we had to be tight. Neither one of us planned it nor did we expect it, but shit split itself in half and we found each other embracing… Sobbing.

For someone who is well aware of how much appearance is valued in the presence of womanly men and broad-shouldered women, the masses at Neighbourgoods Market carried no value

“Oh, my goodness… Seeing you just brought back memories of him,” that was her mistake. I held her and I squeezed her so tight in an effort to hold back my tears.

“Please, say no more,” I whispered. That was my mistake.

Unfortunately, I was faced with a situation; a moment that brought the realisation that I have been pretending to have never been affected much by his death. For months, I would speak about him and the good times we used to have without a tinge of emotion. I was lying to myself. I hadn’t mourned his passing.

Lift your head up and stand tall… I think I took the phrase to heart and too far. I found myself comfortable in what I vowed I will never be. The bubbly me was visible despite suppressed emotions enthused by missing links in my life.

I hadn’t let go of him. Now, here I am. What must happen?

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I give birth to myself

I give birth to myself, so it seems.

I realised this as I mulled over which hole my skinny pipe should infiltrate.

Of course, its own intentions are flexible, as opposed to what my mind anticipates and lusts for.

My two hands clutch on it, hold it together and it behaves.

This way I find myself. And, this is how I know I give birth to myself.

I conserve resentment at the sight of discernment under my roof.

Yes, in the eyes of the enemy, I am capable of pulling punches with this broken wrist of mine.

I murmur hymns and silently recite celestial idioms; calling onto sincere influences.

Suddenly, I am entirely serene. That way, I realise I give birth to myself very often.

Surely, I give birth to myself.

Carrying an abbreviated burden, the world is still conspicuously beautiful in my eyes.

Bordering opinions toss attempts, this way. Yet, my pupils are fixed on the bigger picture.

I stretch both my lips, forcing them to part and interpret what the heart emits.

And then, the light seems to be all over the tunnel. This is how I know I give birth to myself.

I am convinced I give birth to myself because my etiquettes wear panties in sun-drenched climates.

Yep! I show my nipples in the rain, my pubes hang in washing lines, as my personality wanks in corridors.

But, my undies remain glued to my etiquettes. This is how I learn my water broke.

And, I understand that I continue to give birth to myself.

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The mathematics of lust

With all the veracity I have been clouted with in my existence, I still hold close the serene concept of a fairy-tale when it comes to relationships. Nevertheless, I am aware that many may argue that this is the same reason my many fairy-tales end-up mashed, on the potato side of things.

Given that my reciprocation in affairs tend to equal preeminent standards, offerings coming my way ought to hit the roof in excellence.

Having said that, the escapade my sexuality explored in preceding weeks has left me wincing at my initial principles; leaving me chewing reality with the same attitude I applied to my fairy-tale ideas.

I fell in what the mind understood as erotic hankering.  For the first time, my heart remained immobile.  My mind stimulated many parts of me; an effort that inspired me to pursue the prey. Hence he hovered in my surroundings.

Looking back to what had been, today, I am amazed at what maturity has done with my emotions. Also, I am pleased I kept at arms-length with the kill. Yes, I was keen on further developments. But, I was also interested in seeing and feeling his attentiveness. Alas, I almost took lead in a one man show.

Too bad, I could have made an amazing Romeo in Pretoria; despite the abrasive Joburgness in me.

I admit to this, with my objectives untainted and still clouted with a tranquil concept of a fairy-tale when it comes to relationships.

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Why don't you be the writer?

In between acknowledging the existence of homosexuals in societies and the subjects fully embracing their sexuality, a few heterosexuals misidentified their preliminary grasp of life on earth as an indication that they possess power and the independence to control the actions of those who materialised later.

Several gay people exiled themselves to cabinets with the intention to avoid promising discernment of any sort. Times evolved and countries held a fresh perspective on things, and then we had gay friendly households, welcoming cities and accommodative legislations. This inspired one straight mind to assume the sits of Gods.

For many gay men and butch women the journey has been decadent while some paid with their lives; a price silently ticketed by sexist presidents, uncouth neighbours as well as families driven by fear of being excluded by communities.

Because I am free, as a homosexual individual, in the presence of a sagacious conventional woman, she miscalculated my company and acquaintance for acquiescence to articulate to me who to lust over and who not to consider.

Knowledgeable mama felt she had to warn me as the reciprocals might endanger me. One could have sworn she walked the journey with me; from denying myself of the true me, lying to family and hiding from masses. One would swear she knows what is best for me. For a gay man.

You clasped silence and they utter a word. They feel your ears are famished and your life is losing weight, hence the feeding schemes they throw your way. They believe they are observant enough as you change your position and they amend your movements.

In between sleeping with other men for sexual pleasure and the straight souls knowing, the latter subjects became the artists who felt endowed to script lines for untrained gay people.

Perhaps, Madonna is no longer God. They are. Actually, heterosexuals are God.

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Oh, Jerusalem

Hello, it speaks. Put me in there.

Obedience bends in kind, we are in here.

Like a freak at the sight of throbbing rigidity,

I find my way to a household so clustered, I am blinded.

We sway lightly, but I am hard.

We are excited.

Oh, Jerusalem, Eve may have been lured by the beauty of prohibited capsules,

But down here we spit to appreciate.

We jump to bite a bun; buttered one side yet dripping both sides.

Slices so sensitive, I am in. I have sunk.

Exchanges in unspoken phrases, minds are inspired.

Weakness is sheltered in the joints.

Emulating animated concepts, a part of me is in charge.

Efforts are met, sounds are heard and marks are made.

Like a coquette approaching royalty, I seek dominion.

He submits. I sign. He receives.

I approve. He is proud.

Thanks to the works, we are wet.

Oh, Jerusalem, some may have dubbed you intolerant.

I find you otherwise.

Happy read!

Heart behaviours

Hello today, yesterday infested me with the other day’s love endemic.

And now, I carry a heart and, once again, it seethes

I am listening to every grain of its occurrences. I bear joy. The future is set alight.

I am not worried. The ducks on the queue. My preceding have been omitted.

For as long as it beats, I seem to excite a longing.

Not so long, yet it appears I can prolong it. Longevity is a possibility.

And now, I carry a feeling, to which I am a customary victim

As if to emulate a punishment, it hits even-handedly the sensitive parts of me.

Had my ear sought after my well narrated hurt, I would be resisting.

Body and soul.

Soul and mind.

My mind, together with my heart, ought to pursue all good intentions

Hello today, yesterday has afforded me some kind of a cure for my disease

As a result, I speed through corridors mending the cracks of the heart I carry.

I strutting with aberration

With a face painted with irrational grins, I interweave it with a constricted thread.

I welcome delight, as upcoming days bear fire blazing hours.

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Bravo task team! Bravo!

It would be hypocritical of me to detach my name from the list of people who often have nothing pleasant to say about the South African government. While I am never the inciter, during such disputes, I certainly pour a great deal of my censorious perspectives concerning the state and its men.

Nonetheless, I am amongst the first people who highlight something good that has resulted from the system I call a joke.

The arrest made in relation to one of the eight murders (of gay men) in Gauteng, brought a tear to my eye. Of course, this could have happened in the long run, but the mere fact that a task team was arranged and tasked to combat a homophobic crime, is worth writing home about. Many other gay men share the same sentiments, I am sure.

I acknowledge that our statesmen did not emulate the homophobic Australian Prime Minister who hosted homosexual couples at her official residence. Yet, I am certainly happy I am not based in Iraq; where 58 people who were either gay or believed to be so were killed in one month. My South Africa falls short.

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Eccentrically flawless

The face structure accentuates his cheekbones and I am called to look, but not to gaze.
He does what he does and I become inundated in his actions as he does.
My mind is here; as he speaks it follows the batting of his nicely carved lips.
I am not slumbering nor am I dead to the world.
I can hear him, he knows and I understand him and his stories.
Go on, my nods command him. I hear you, my eyes tell him. I am pleased, my smile assures him.

He speaks furthermore and I devour all the verses his lips recite.
I munch away as he feeds me.
My head is halfway. Come, come closer, my eyes converse.
I open my lips wide. He thrusts, nicely; his natter and I do not vacillate to swallow.
He feeds me some more while the surrounding stares.
Reciprocally we are nonchalant, but he cares that I’m assiduous.

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As we lay, foolishly

He belonged to me just for one night. Stupid me, I failed to keep it at that. I had to strut around town carrying a feeling in my heart. At least, I think that is where it was and not in my pants.

Signs cuffed my belly as I humped and pumped his rubber, but I forced my mind to focus on my near destiny. I even faced complications reaching that destination due to being intoxicated, but I loved it. So did he.

The night faded and it dawned; the sun penetrated the window and its reflection hit the wall behind me and off to his face it went and it found comfort. He was beautiful. He was sexy. He was mine; tall, light with a loud mouth.

The loud mouth he is, he seemed to have exhausted his speech during last night’s blurting at the bar. Therefore, I took it upon my smitten abilities to chat him up. He reciprocated my efforts with looks and smiles that drag me to the deepest route of love. Now and then, his head would meet mine half way and our lips would lock. And every time my lips brushed his, I died a million deaths because I could not believe what I was experiencing; it was more than I had ever experienced before. And to think I have heard and seen it all.

It had not even been 24 hours yet, but I was in love already. I realised I had been transformed. And that exact moment I was hurt in advance because I knew what was coming. Even though we both did a great job in making that night the best time of our lives together, him and I were an illusion.

I forgot to acknowledge one thing; he can never be mine. Instead, I went ahead got lost in the moment. I sank in his kisses and I refused to shift from his side while we lay. But I had to go. I left, but it feels like he left me.

Poor him, he’s going on with his business, unaware that I wish one of us could get on a Santaco plane and fly over to play a scene of two fools in lust.

He belonged to me just for one night, but I feel like I have lost a soul mate. With that being said, it is killing me to have him in my life. So I pray to God and ask him to give me strength to get over this man.

Today, I have a price to pay. I mean, for every choice we make in life, there are consequences; good or bad, it does not matter. In my case, I have to endure a sore heart.  So far, not even one episode of Sex And The City has helped to erase him from my mind. I miss him every day. Hence I have opted to watch Glee with the hope of approaching the mending from a different angle. Being infatuated by him is killing me.

I know I am to blame for taking tomorrow for granted, but even fools deserve a third chance.

Happy read!

Subject imminent

Man, oh man he’s a good man
Fixed to his word, he’s keeping up
He makes up for the less I hear of him
He listens, he remembers and he does.

I told him. He acted
Like I had asked, he spoke on time yet he broke me into pieces.

His speech was packed with fruit. But I don’t like oranges and litchi
His words tore apart the tubes conveying blood from various parts of my body to the heart
He hurt me. I made him hurt me.

My heart is tired
Leaving my mental supremacy in doubt of the intense feeling of deep affection my heart exudes from its aperture.

I made a fool out of God
Now my nose bleeds stupidity
He must be glad
Though appalled, I will applaud the timing.

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My boys of miscarriage

I lied to myself so many times, when I was single, and said I am NOT looking. Love will find me, I would say. But deep down in me, I knew I was looking for the one person with whom I can talk about things that other people hardly understand nor find interesting.

I went out with friends at night and on weekends; drank, laughed and ate all the fattening food. I socialised and met new friends some of whom felt like I was too much of a pink diamond to be single. So, I was hooked up -unwillingly- many times with other single sheeps. Though disappointing in so many levels at times, the experience was fun and very insightful.  

I met men – and boys - I felt were the right ones. With some, I slept, I had sex and I loved. Many of whom proved to fall for me for the many get-togethers I am loved for. Clearly, boy eyed guaranteed entrance tickets – to a house I do NOT even own - whenever yours truly felt Oprah-ish and fed the ‘nation’; making it rain while he would come in with arms folded. I am guessing his wallet had one big hole through which his cents escaped on his way to mine.

The last one though, boy I mean, was a figure my friends felt was the most ludicrous relation I have ever pursued. He liked me and I liked him back. He had deep issues and I had to have tissues always. Of course, I had problems too.

Nonetheless, he was not a hard tiff to swallow. Or so I thought. He left me bending picking up my jaw when he had no shame sharing with me that his ex did not only have horse of a pipe, but he –my boy- was the only one whom the ex told could take it all in...

Yes, I was single and in like, but I was not foolish that I would dip my being in a hole that had taken in objects dubbed to be larger and bigger than my arm. Besides, I had an ego to grow NOT to bruise it. Imagine, me humping and pumping a ride with someone who’d probably be focusing on how slow my beard is growing.

Oh, what a loss though. But he left me with a lesson; never take too lightly petite boys, particularly those who compliment me every chance they get.

All the same, the one before him was another tale to be reckoned. A song I would have chosen Amy Winehouse to sing. I and he were what many considered a match-made in heaven. However, we both knew we were nothing like that. Instead, we were simply lusting for each other.

I told him many times how much I wanted him. I don’t care what everyone thinks of you, I want you, I would say. He would touch me and get playful with me in public and he let me kiss him whenever I wanted to.

Yet, it appeared he had not only been touchy and playful with me. Right across my house, my coloured neighbour knew him. In fact, my neighbour and his friends knew him very well. He had photos to prove it. I saw the photos, he was right; they knew him seeing that we all had seen him.

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Mzantsi - Not so juicy!

All women deserve to be treated with immense care and respect. This is a notion shared by many countries around the world.

Some states went as far as advocating for the 50/50 concept, to promote women beyond households en route for higher-ranking settings in boardrooms and in politics. Consequently, the likes of Shirley Lue Arnold, Khanyi Dhlomo, Wendy Luhabe, Pam Golding and Helen Zille are amongst the many women who are widening the female footprint in areas that were once perceived as male zones.

South Africa has progressed from being a tyrannical (gender and race bias) state to a country that recognises and advocates for many aspects of human rights and women empowerment initiatives. As a result, misuse of these rights is frowned upon.

Contrary to the latter, women are still the most susceptible to crime, abuse and discrimination in South Africa. In recent cases, women are lured to the country and subsequently forced to work as prostitutes. Lesbians are subjected to corrective rape by men who claim to be “curing" them of their sexual orientation.

This is the country that once had a woman for a deputy president. Businesses operative within South African parameters are compelled to acknowledge and practise gender equity. In fact, for the local government to do any business with private companies such companies must show where they stand in regards to representing women of any race in their businesses.

However, human trafficking is still rife in South Africa. Women are subjected to sexual exploitation and forced labour. Yes, many of them are foreigner. But, the fact is, all this takes place IN South Africa.

The United States government recently released Trafficking in Persons Report which states that South Africa is a transit and destination country for women and children subjected to forced labour and sex trafficking.

Why then do we still have such problems when we can only be dealing with issues regarding unemployment rate of women and more empowerment initiatives for them?

Last year, Jeff Radebe, Minister of Justice and Constitutional Development, said the government was planning to fast-track a new law against human trafficking before the start of the soccer World Cup. It is a year later now, the Western Cape still has women who bring other women into the country under false pretences and force them to be prostitutes. What happened to the Prevention and Combating in Trafficking in Persons Bill Sir Radebe was planning to “fast-track”?

Educated minds know better than to pay attention to what the government says and promises. That is why the issue of human trafficking in South Africa is only fought by small private organisations. Chances are, had several women and children’s rights groups not warned about this exploitation last year, the government would not have uttered a word.

South Africa comprises political parties that tend to promise to build Jerusalem for the homeless, feed those whose tummies are echoing emptiness and free education for all. Not even one of them says a thing about the human trafficking issue South Africa is facing.

Is the human trafficking issue not a mention during their speeches in parliament? They are waiting to host another big event during which they will try and impress tourists and outside investors?

Clearly, the government dreads the process of establishing rigid restrictions for human trafficking; hence the safe and easy route to take would be to assist the existing anti-human trafficking organisations by providing them with necessary resources to combat this crisis.

Oh, my dear political parties lie at least. Say something is about to be done just like your vague promises about fixing potholes and combating corruption amongst yourselves. Hold those pointless conferences annually. That way, at least young minds can learn about human trafficking JUST from hearing about it. Possibly, that could make school teachers’ jobs a bit easier and perhaps the ever accelerating HIV/Aids rate could decrease even if it is with one percent.

Happy read!

Me & Mr Jones: I remember

I remember having drinks with two friends; a very attractive guy and an elegant lady. To me this was a foreign land. A home and where school is for her, while this is where he use to study. Now, he only comes to visit his peers from church.
 
I was very familiar, and friendly with the double shots of Southern Comfort and lime I had in my hand. He was having the same while she went for something she felt was less 'hard', a Savanna.
 
With a cigarette at hand, she was blurting away. One would swear I have known her for ages, but I had just met her a few minutes ago. Thanks to Twitter, she asked to meet with me because she had heard of my PR proficiency. I'm not that good in the field, but I fitted her criteria of a young, vibrant, smart gay man.
 
We were chatting. She was enjoying us. He was entertaining. My Blackberry Messenger (BBM) was demanding my eye; Mr Jones was dining right across where we were. I wanted to see him. Gosh, I have been looking forward to this day.
 
I knew he was dark, but unsure of how tall he was. His Facebook photos depicted a tall skinny boy. Contrary to what he believed, he was good looking. He is near News Cafe, his text showed. I excused myself and up I went, carried away by self-reliance that would have fed a lot of starving children in Rwanda.
 
There he was. Cute, I muttered. He wasn't tall. He was not tall at all. He was still dark and very lovely though.
 
Hand shakes, wry smiles, hotness oozed between the two of us. Within a few seconds I had made him relax. Or had he made me relax? We were both not nervous; clearly we were two adults who were very much used to meeting strangers.
 
I walked him back to his res. At least I had established that he's not so busy, hence I had planned to have him hang with me, him and her. This was his territory, but I could tell that Mr Jones was did not go out much. Well, his time had come.
 
I went back strutting in excitement. I informed the crew that we will have a 'guest' among us. They got even more excited when they learn that I wanted to pursue Mr Jones.
 
I remember we moved from point A to B because freshmen are not allowed anywhere else except point B.
 
I remember the number grew from three; two men and a lady, to three men and a lady. The big man was in the midst. Rounds flew, allowing intoxication in the mind. By now everyone wanted to see Mr Jones. Right then, my BBM was buzzing. I'm here, where are you guys, his text showed.
 
He's here, I told the crew. I went to meet him halfway. He came to join us. Everyone loved him. Everyone loved him alright.
 
One drink too many. Stones was getting even more packed, but we had reserved our space so that we had enough to dance on. Or should I say that space was for me and me alone? I mean, I was the only one dancing.
 
I believe it was during my dancing that Mr Jones managed to forge, between himself and my male friend, what I had expected to develop between him and I.
 
I remember the big guy pulling me aside to ask me if I could see what was going on between the two. It was clear, but my mind was to slow to capture such disturbing moments. My friend entertaining my lovely Mr Jones, no harm in that, I thought.
 
I remember seeing their lips lock. I giggled, not because it was funny but, because it was strange just how roles have changed in one day, over few hours, between two good friends; all for a stranger. My then potential lover.
 
I remember the big guy and I waiting on Mr Jones and he to finish smooching. How lovely. No! How weird? Actually, ouch. Very ouch.
 
I remember confronting him inside a cab we took as we were heading home; to his place. "I can't believe you," I said, with a mouth that surely reeked of liquor. "Can we not talk about this now Dladla," he suggested. When was the right time? After they have established a solid foundation for their love for each other?
 
I remember, not hugging my friend when I left for work the next day. I remember nursing a weird pain in my belly every time their BBM statuses suggested they were together or going for a night out together. I remember forcing myself to accept that I had lost and my friend had won. I remember texting both of them wishing all the best.
 
To be honest, they made each other happy. I do believe they loved each other.
 
Despite what I thought in the beginning, me and Mr Jones could have never worked out. The fact that I was a R96 away while my friend was merely R20 confirmed this. Besides, Mr Jones was a student, something I had recently decided to stay away from. I, on the other hand, was very clingy; something that would have annoyed him to the point of ditching me.
 
I believe this is the realisation that brought me to man up and be 'happy' for Mr Jones and my friend. As a result, I had just the perfect idea. The plan was to invite both of them over at my place for a day or two. We would chill, eat and have fun just like old times.
 
The main idea here was to restore my friendship with my friend while setting things with Mr Jones to however they were before I found him appealing. Also, Mr Jones had never been to my house. He had always heard of the parties and braai that I usually host. Now, the time for him to come had arrived.
 
"When do you want to host us? Mr Jones and I have broken up," text from him showed. I gasped alone in a taxi home.
 
I remember feeling anger intensifying inside me. I almost lost a friendship with him. For what? A fling? Couldn't they have worked harder on whatever the problem was? After all the shit their relationship put me through, they failed to nurture what they have started? Actually, I was hurt. For what? Just for a spare of the moment kind of thing?
 
It's like they were both spiting me, with him saying let me get the taste of what my friend was after while Mr Jones pursued his inquisitiveness in regards to how it feels to be with the friend of the guy who wanted him.
 
I feel their relationship cost me. Now they threw all that away. Just when I was beginning to get my head around the idea of them dating.
 
Happy read!

Disfigured, yet fall in love

I love walking. I love walking to the Spar down the street from my house when I've ran out of bacon, to Campus square when I want to do my groceries or to 7th when I feel like a night or a day out.
 
Sometimes, I try and convince my house mate - who drives - to walk with me when we go for grocery shopping. "I didn't buy this car so that I could leave here and walk," he would reply with his British twang.
 
A few times we have walked; me and him, or me with whoever is my visitor on a certain day and whether or not the visitor owns a car.
 
During my walks, I get to notice and value the structure and magnificence of the area in which I stay. I get to admire the trees; the wind blowing in between the twigs giving freedom to leaves that find their way to my dreadlocks. As green or emaciated those leaves are, I smell them.
 
I appreciate nature and on top of that I value and admire the unknown women and men I see on the streets. How well built they are, sexy and how smartly dressed - or not – they are.
 
As I go the opposite direction, I wonder if the person passing me is the person whom I'm meant to date or marry; my Mr Right sort of thing. I wonder if the stranger I just passed will ever come into my life. If he does, will he form part of the list of people whom I value or merely add to that which is filled by the men who have caused me nothing but hurt?
 
Why does it matter though, I ask myself. I mean what we expect, rather I expect, from the people I know sometimes come from strangers. The disappointment that I would expect from strangers, or lack of care thereof, has become something I get habitually from the people I know. At times, those we know hurt us so bad that our trust gets bruised and damaged. Particularly when it comes to relationships.
 
This is very true. I know so because I have experienced it; thanks to one of my Mr Rights who turned out to be not-so right for me. I spoke to him a few days back, and throughout our conversation, he showed me an attitude that shocked me a bit. I loved this guy. He loved me too, I felt it. I knew him so well. We were crazy about each other. Of course, this was up until he cheated on me with a guy he met in my room.
 
His work in breaking my heart went further when, after the guy he cheated on me with, he went for one of my closest whom I once dated. This is something that left me broken and damaged, and I have been living with this thing inside since it happened three years ago.
 
I hated him most of the time. I wished all the bad things upon him.
 
All that has now vanished, because I have forgiven him. Unfortunately, I cannot just forget. I think that is why I gathered the courage to speak to and interrogate him in regards to what he did to me.
 
"I'm so shocked you still thinking about this. We were young Dladla," he responded. Is he serious? Did he expect me to just forget about the fact that he lied to me and pretended as if he loved me? We were young? Young and yet able to do things only old people are meant to do? Young but introduced me to his aunts and his grandmother? Young but had the ability to deceive me? He cheated and yet he blames that on being young? He must have swapped his brains for bigger balls.
 
I became angry all over again. It was all good, I guess, that we were communicating via BBM. Otherwise, had he been in front of me, things would have turned ugly. This is the first guy whom I fell in love with. It was with him that I learnt what really takes place when two gay men are naked underneath blankets. Now, he expected me to just forget about it and the fact that he hurt me just like that? This boy is crazy.
 
Yes, his response to my questions disturbed me a bit. He did come across like he was making a mockery of the fact that I once loved him and believed he loved me. It was as if he was laughing at me for walking around with this thing inside me.
 
This is someone I knew. This is boy was once a stranger whom I probably walked passed on the streets thinking "Mh, nice..." But now, I knew him and he knew me and he treated me as if I am some stranger who does not deserve his apology or genuine compassion. On the face of it, he found me stupid and very childish.
 

Despite his view of the whole matter, this boy hurt me. He broke my heart and left me with a scar that dented my trust a bit. Yet, I still fall in love.

With that having happened; my relationship with him, his with the boy he cheated on me with and with an ex of mine whom I had become very good friends prior their affair; I stand tall with a very positive attitude in regards to love and relationships. I still believe in love. I still believe that I will come across a guy who will do what I expected this guy to be.
 
Happy read!

Doing him...

Naked, skinny, sticky me on top of his white chocolate skin

I lied and said I will be quick.  I said I will not be going in.

But I found myself deep inside him.

Intending to draw where he stands, I locked my eyes in his.

His lips found a way to mine.

Maybe he bit me, I don’t recall.

While he moaned, I felt his hands searching my body. I growled.

We wanted something. We were about to share.

Scars on my back grew, a sign that he receives my gift.

He cried in ecstasy.

I held close his diminutive round bun, preventing resistance from his part.

He pushed. I thrust. He screamed. I went harder.

It’s coming, he said.

Then receive me, I whispered

My pace picked up while my fore-waist fought his manly hands.

I am not hurting him. I love him.

I felt he was hungry. I had to feed him.

I released my whole inside him

Baby, I love you. Baby, I love you.

At least, I am showed him.

I thrust even harder, going even faster.

I am not myself, I am his.  

My part wholly inside him, his body went rigid.

He was still breathing. So, he was alive.

Like ice, he melted and I died on top of him.

Happy read!