Thank You. Thank You.

He could feel his eyes glint in the darkness. The dry wind whipped and whistled dryly outside. Although his eyes where wide open, all he could see was the liquid blackness. That was not all he could feel though. His lazy arm cupped her left breast in such a way that her nipple stood erect through a crack in his fingers.

Abruptly, he got up, tightened his towel around his waist and used his free hand to massage his lower eyes. He lazily slung the already drenched towel around his waist on the crook of a nearby chair, wondering what juices exactly made the towel that moist…

He lay back on the bed. Wordlessly, she took his hand and drew them to just below her stomach. His fingers touched the delicate curls of the middle…

“Will you cut my hair?”

He smiled. He raised her off the bed and now she laid in his lap, her arms stretched over head, fingers interlaced with his. He laughed at her statement and gave her an incredulous look.

“I have a shaving stick, No one has ever cut me down there, please cut my hair.”

He sighed out in mock annoyance, of course she would make this difficult, she'd pout, stick out that luscious bottom lip and bat those thick dark eye lashes of hers at him and all resolve would melt away instantly. There was no point in trying anymore.

“Fine”

He surrendered, she was up and out of the room in a flash, lighting up scented candles as she hurried away but soon returned, naked as the day she was born with a shaving stick in hand. He blanched as the natural lighting reflected off of her sun kissed chocolate skin.

“Where did your clothes go?”

She laughed, walked past him into the bathroom and began to assemble her tools of trade. Taking a few moments to admire herself in the mirror before she pouted, winked and turned around towards him expectantly.

“I'm ready”

He hadn't moved from the bed, and just stared up at her with a slack jaw. She was utterly insane, but in such a beautiful way, every day there was something new to catch his attention, would he ever be free? Throwing his head back, he adjusted the stand of one of the candles to clear his visage and stood up ready for the battle ahead. She arched her back as she handed the appliance to him, their fingers overlapping momentarily, spiking the energy levels in the air around them. A coy smile here, a soft touch there, she sat, legs apart, awaiting his touch.

He stood in front of her, long fingers caressing her thighs, the shaving stick in his left hand, as his right tickled her senses.

“I could fuck you up, now, you know...”

He whispered threateningly, a double meaning in all speech. She smiled, eyes closed, bringing her own hand to his.

“You won't”

He bent over and kissed the tip of her skull, eyes closed. Then brought the device to the place he’d hours before, relayed his love. The stillness of his actions and the elevated music buzzing in the background was the only sound heard between the two humans. Tufts of hair fell down around her, lightly touching her thighs before moving down to the bed. He watched the tips of her breasts rise and fall with each breath, taking a glance every now and then at the adjacent mirror, marveling in the gift that sat before him. Naked of all things, materialism, vanity, ignorance, stupidity, a gift indeed.

He was almost done, he could feel the glistening wetness about her already, she opened her eyes and watched him in the mirror, his light shone so bright to her in everything he did, he gave her freedom but he gave her love, gave her the world if she asked for it, but she didn't need it, because she had him, and he inspired. He inspired everything.

He was almost done. The shaving stick relayed a slight quiver rippling through her figure. She opened her legs wider, eyes never leaving his, and rubbed her scalp as she stretched her neck, arching her back just a little more. He rubbed her lower stomach gently, feeling his way gently over the newly shaven desert. He paused.

“Don’t stop”.

She sat up, closing the distance between them, her small hands splayed gently on his chest, lips reaching higher to touch his own, she stopped a few centimeters from his face. Feeling his warm breathe against her lips, savoring the scent of his cologne, as his fingers weaved their magic down under. She closed her eyes, and muttered:

“Thank you”

Mutterings.

And so, I'm here again.

Why do I always do this to myself? I never write, I let life pile up & then when I sit down to pen a piece I'm utterly speechless. I wouldn't call this writers block, I'd call this laziness.

Utter laziness.

And I'm determined to end it.

So school’s resumed. And it’s boring. Kinda, just as I determined to spend more of my time in the real word rather than the twitter-verse, It suddenly becomes boring. Anyways, that's why we have music shey? To remind us of those times, those times? Life has sped up since the turn of the year. 2011 looks like a long lean African chick prowling around me in an all white Lady Gaga outfit.

Clearly this year is all about power, clearly this year is all about the end, it must be, the violence it used to make it's entrance shook me enough to have complete faith in this ideal.

2011 just wants to suck my dick.

And, speaking of the real world, it’s a tad bit scary. You know, bridging the gap between my online internet persona, and my real world persona, which are, in essence so far apart, is hugely dick weakening. But hey, I’m wonderful at being such a sucker for those sucking on my big ol' ego. In case you don’t know, sometimes, I get worshipped. And I fucking hate it.

Who hates that?

Wait, sometimes I despise it when people worship me, especially in person, especially when I'm high, because there's not much you can say without sounding conceited and it always takes me by surprise. Do you know how many people I run into with the words “I love your blog” or “I love your Tweets”. They completely shatter the ice for me, and then I can't even introduce myself, or say my name. I kinda feel naked you know? Sucks.

I never realized how much I liked introducing myself to people until the option was taken away from me.

Thing is, I used to have this huge fucking Inferiority Complex which tends to rear its ugly head at very inopportune times, the way these things work… *sigh* And when I get famous? I'm going to go to far and remote countries and lie about my identity ....wait...no I won't. I'll just buy all that land. Yeah, just buy the land build a condo, stay with my baby and shoot any photographers trying to get shots that come onto your property, it'll be in Cambodia or Rwanda or Asia so you can shoot those guys easy.

And school. Well, so much for spending a few days in school, and getting reminded that guys can be huge douchebags? Er, this profound realization, includes even me. I've found the lot of guys that surround me to be complete morons in the face of pussy. It's abhorrent, it's like a drunkard. I loathe pussy-drunk dudes, you know the ones who can't stand straight to save their lives, when their dicks are standing straight? Yeah, fuck them. That's just disgusting, why on earth would you want to have so little control of yourself? And by the way, they become completely unreliable and turn into monsters. Pussy is and will always be the kryptonite of the penis.

Great minds lost completely in the tornado that is fresh vagina, friendships dwindle to mummy-like dust that tastes so bitter in my mouth all because of fresh vagina.

I simply can't fathom how easily they lose control of their senses in the face of vagina. All logic is thrown out the window and to be honest? If you’re gonna be a bitch ass nigga, at least be a sneaky bitch ass nigga, and stop reeling out shit about how you be playing the dudette.

There's no point in lying.

Truth is so much easier. Being yourself? Speaking your mind? Easy.

And by the way, It’s Two Months today since I smoked. Thankful. But then. I resume soon.

Been listening to too much New Age Music.

Ill continue later. *sigh*

Today.

All I really want to write about is something with the title: “Of Penises and Vaginas”. *sigh* But my thoughts are so jumbled up right now, I think I’m just gonna write rubbish? Fuck. I really need to get a grip of my thoughts someday. And that’s why I tweet. By the freaking way, someone told me I really should get paid for my tweets. I really find it hard to see that as a compliment. My finger’s itch for something to write about…

But what can I say that hasn’t already been said?

I’m pressuring myself again, to write about something serious, but then I remember that there's no rush, God willing I'll be in School soon with more than enough weed and enough drama and more than enough time to vibe and exist, and document this existence. I'm just counting the days, biding my time, preparing for the immediate greatness till I finally graduate. A little bummed about the lack of romance in my life, I need her to be here, nibbling ears and soft kisses and lots of laughter. That being said, I think the dougie is a perfect dance to be danced with that grenade song. I do it with no shame.

I just finished reading a Christian novel: “A voice in the wind” by Francine Rivers, and I’m chilled out in the library. The silence of this moment comforts me. There's no music. There's no television, just the steady hum of the air conditioning, the click clacks of my keyboard and the beat of my heart, skips a couple every now and then, but it's all I good. I still smile. I still breathe.

I still live.

I've never been more grateful for every tear and every snarl or howl, for every hiccup on the road, for every hard time, I've never been more grateful, for all the whips and all the pain, all the anguish and none of the gain, I've never been more grateful. Because each step I took, whether it was in water or on fire, led me to this moment today. And as I look at my tomorrow, I see a glint in the reflection that steadily grows and blinds me from all the blemishes of my past, it's erased, washed out and I only see tomorrow. Each second, each minute, each hour, each day is a chance to start over, to overcome and to move on. To grow stronger, to grow smarter and to learn from it all.

Soon, I graduate. Many of my already graduated friends seem to think it’s really difficult out there. Maybe it was easy for them while in here? Instead of the dampness of this damning judgment of the outside world depressing the shit out of me, I look forward to the freedom. The endless possibilities of me being in my natural state? Of smoking whenever I want to without feeling any guilt? Of living my life the freaking way I want it? Yeah, Yeah…. Say it. Bla Bla. I’ve heard it all before.

I still prefer to see the shit in my half empty glass as delicious.

I'm simply in love with all the possibilities of life. Every sordid avenue, every delicious turn, and the long list of loves I'll peruse with such pride in years to come. I'll love some of the greatest human beings on this planet.

I have to.

But now, I still feel the pain. The sting. Shit still stings, ya know? I should have graduated. The pain that comes with the ‘rents giving you the You-Should-Have-Fucking graduated look anytime you ask for shit?

But I welcome this pain, I welcome this feeling of power that accompanies it. This is the lot I have, my kind has been underestimated for years and I can't wait to prove these archaic doctrines of doing things “in one way” completely and utterly wrong.

I can't wait to change the perception.

I can't wait to flex these muscles. I thought of this the other day: For every life luxury, there is a cost that has to be paid in integrity. I should write a pamphlet: Wise Words for Dummies.

Till Then. I’ll sweat. I’ll toil. I’ll bleed. I’ll be foolish.

Remember this. Bitch.

P.S. Do you deserve your Penis/Vagina?

Story.

The phone rang again. She was still doped up.

curiously, the persistent ringing didn't irritate her. Instead it scratched at her heart. Until it became sore. She ignored it, not even pressing the 'silent' button on her phone.

She thought of getting up to get food. Her legs refused to obey her brain. She didnt even know what she had taken. The only thing her mind responded to was the bottle of cough syrup on her bed side. A little gust of wind blew in from the half open window. She still couldnt get up. She wishes her cheeks would just redden.One of the advantages of being half caste.

One of the disadvantages of being half caste, was being beautiful. Which made her prone to trolling And trolling only gets you trolls. She thought of her dead father, and her almost absent mother. She thought of the hate she felt toward her mothers sister. And her husband. She thought of the pain when she was being disvirgined. she thought of the life it had brought her.

Another gust of wind. Straight at her pussy. She shuddered. A trickle of sweat crossed her eyelid. Instinctively, her hand went up to brush it off. Sweat.

Sweat. She remembered, two days ago. How she lay on his chest. Taking in the pungent smell of his sweat. And loving it. Listening to him breathe, and listening to him talk. Oh my, the sound of his voice just made some parts of her tingle. He touched her ear, tracing the line of her jaw, using his forefinger to massage her full lips. Himtelling her how he loved it when her face reddened. The same finger he used to touch her best friend. In the most private of places.

She groaned inwardly. She could still feel his breath on her hair. His gentle strokes and his fingers parting her hair and the wind blowing through. Him drawing her upwards and kissing her forehead.

Lord, stolen water was sweet.

He cupped her face in his hands... taking her upper lip into his mouth and sucking on it. Gently sucking her tounge, his hands moved to just below her armpits, massaging her body on its way down until it rested on her waist... God, he knew how to pause. How to make her want to beg for more. But her pride...

He smiled at her mischevioulsly, held her hand, licked his lips and Asked for Mirinda. Her heart sank. As she turned to pick up her t shirt, she saw his foot on her t shirt, and his hands on her waist. Her heart leapt for joy.

Holding her waist from the back, her nibbled on her ear, making her twinge and her body tingle. His hands wondering, and her eyes closed, she didnt know when his hands went into the front of her jeans and carressed the hair in the middle of her body. She dropped down to her knees. Weak.

Too weakened to argue, her feet felt like gelatin as he swept her and carried her away from the parlour. Dropping her savagely on the bed. Stifling a grin, she wondered why her need for him had overcome all forms of finesse. Tearing off her brassiere, she inwardly willed him to take her. Hard.

Now it was all about damage control. He took her two nipples into his mouth... using his tounge so deftly, she wondered if she could make any sounds at all... His hands... Made her legs part without her consent...

Entering her slowly, she felt the muscles at the back of her thighs go taut.

The world seemed to pause.

Then go into slow motion. Her eyes seemed to tint. She barely knew where she was. She only felt the passion, the movement.....

Her phne rang again. This time, she put it on silent. Her eyes barely saw the caller ID.

Someone wailed in yoruba in the distance.

She picked up the knife. Her body obeyed her this time.


And slit her wrists.

She picked up the still vibrating phone. Feeling the blood warm and slick flowing dwon her hands, she opened her eyes to look at the screen of the now bloodied phone.

He was calling. But it was to late. How she had waited for that call.

Shouting with all the strength left in her, she tried to scream his name as she flung the phone at the window.

The words never came out. She felt her eyes closing, then she heard the phone crash against the window.

At last, she felt at peace.

To A Friend.

I really need to write desperately, but I simply haven't been inspired, there hasn't been enough romance in my life. I feel strangely inspired to pen a few lines tonight. Is it because you told me to write about you? Maybe, Maybe not. Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not an expert writer, and I don’t write about people, I really just write what my fingers type which is particularly no big talent in itself, just me? So here goes. A bit of what I feel…

For some time now, I've found that I trust less when a woman is in like with me and me with her. No matter how brilliant of a friend she is, the trust is compromised when I am aware of just how far she'll go for me, simply off of the fact that I for one, might one day want to fuck her. And I don't mean to say it in such a sinister way but in like it is detrimental to any serious friendship, I can't trust a sane woman who might be attracted to me.

Because there has to be something wrong with you to willingly put yourself in my hands. Especially when I've made no move to hide all the dark corners of my mind, if you like that, I just don't know. Really I just don’t.

I have a lot of almost friends who have been demoted simply because of their interest in me. That infatuation destroys the trust I have in that person, makes me unwilling, because at one point feelings will be expected to be reciprocated, and I just can't watch a myself enter into another pretentious fictitious silly game. It drains me you know? It depresses me. I used to have so many female friends, babes I was just cool with, but even that safe haven has been compromised by the messy games played within the realm of infatuation.

I mean, I can't even have a convo without someone looking at me with an adoring smile and say; “You have the worst mind ever”.

It's kind of becoming a buzz kill to be honest. Is that ungrateful of me? I hope not, I don't want to seem like I'm complaining, I'm just bummed out to be honest. My phone is still gonna be off for a couple of days say month? I don't think I'll get a new one. I just couldn’t be bothered at this point.

That’s why, I miss you. I miss that company. I need more Non-Bad Cannot-Be-Shocked, Femi-Is-Just-A Normal-Person people. All this fakeness is killing my vibe. You know, I really shouldn’t have met you, I knew I’d like you too much. From the moment we got chatting it was funny how I could converse with you in a no holds barred, calm, sarcastic and heart warming way?

Something in my soul is disgruntled by the idea, when I first met you, you were a sorely needed distraction from a hideously disastrous relationship I was in at the time, my really long convo’s with set me free in a sense, fully confirmed just what I had suspected all along. All I need, and still do need is a friend. A soul mate maybe?

Sometimes after talking to you, I used to ask myself "What am I doing here?" “Doing with you?” I was staring at a road with an obvious dead end, wasted energy I could be expending on another potential, on another road that might just lead me to the tip of the galaxy, knowing fully well that I’d most likely not be able to fuck you, or even kiss you, or have a part of you to myself…. but instead I am sitting pretty staring at a brick wall, enclosed in a box.

I continue to think, think about all my memories with you remembering all the things that had made you attractive in the first place, I smile like I’m walking through a field of pleasant nostalgic daisy's, all representing the memories you feature in. I pick one up, and begin to pull of the petals. But before my finger even touches the first one they all blow away, the truth is undeniable. I’m fascinated by you. Fascinated by the fact that we are totally different worlds, different ways of thinking, but you still manage to make my heart smile? Or jump at the sound of your voice?

I think the reason I still see you as indispensable is that you seem like someone who will always continue to amaze me. It terrible that you have a beautiful face and body to boot, which can compromise my thought pattern as a male specie, but then I still see you as…. Funny, I have no words to describe what I see you as. A good friend? Much more than that.

You remain, unmistakably, inexplicably the only person who still amazes me. The only person who has said No to me.

I always wished for a girl to say no to me.

Is that a strange thing to wish for?

You’re such a brilliant friend. You always make my mind laugh, always make my brain smile. A brilliant, beautiful friend.

But I’m hoe.

And your type, unfortunately, don't love these hoes. And, fortunately, I’m in love with you.

Don’t understand? Go figure. It’s hard for me to explain, too.

P.S. I still call you Kafayat.