Story With Neither Head Nor Tail

You fling your wardrobe open and stare at the many empty and dusty perfume bottles. You grab them one by one and throw them on your bed. You then grab the many receipts cluttering the mid-section of the wardrobe, scanning through them as you throw them on the floor. Hotel receipts. ATM receipts. A receipt from Saumu, the hooker from Tinder. You sit on the edge of your bed and study it as if seeing it for the first time, thinking of Leila and how she pushed you into the hands of a hooker.

Two days before joining Tinder, Leila, the love of your life, married the love of her life. When you met her she was already engaged to be married, but she said she loved you still. She loved that you could play the guitar and sing like Kidum. She also loved how you held your locks in a pony, and so she agreed to have a drink with you. Later that night, when you were both intoxicated and could not keep your hands off each other, you invited her over and because you were already having sex with her in your mind, when she walked out of her pants and laid on your bed with her legs slightly parted and a smile plastered on her face, you did not last long after sliding in. You apologized profusely and when the time came to go again, you made sure to last so long that she surrendered long before your orgasms came knocking.

“Save that for another day,” she said, rolling to the other side of the bed.

“So there will be another day?”

“Maybe,” she shrugged, then closed her eyes.

There was another day, only this time she had already made you aware she was seeing someone else. They were engaged, as a matter of fact, and so she asked you not to fall in love with her and you promised not to. But you did. The day she shared her wedding invite card on her WhatsApp status, your blood boiled with rage. You paced the room, thinking and contemplating before finally calling her.

“Can I see you today?”

“You can’t. I am having my nails done and later meet my girls for lunch. I honestly don’t think we will be able to see each other until after the wedding.”

You stepped out on the balcony and leaned against the railing.

“Do you have to marry him?”

“Do I have to?” she chuckled. “What kind of question is that?”

“I mean, what we have is special, right?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am not.”

She sighed. “I am going to hang up but before I do that, I think it will be best if we don’t talk or see each other again.”

Three days later, on a Saturday, you saw a photo of her in her wedding gown kissing the groom at the altar. He was a tall, hairy man. His head was all hair that it was impossible to see his face. He held her firmly by the waist and the thought of his tongue in her mouth brought tears to your eyes. She seemed so in love and it bothered you how easy it was for her to love this man the same way she loved you. You sprawled yourself on the carpet and suddenly felt the urge to fuck someone. The suddenness of this urge was surprising even to you as you furiously rummaged through your WhatsApp contacts for someone to booty-call. You bumped onto Sheila and contemplated her nice dimples messaging her, saying how gorgeous she looked in that blue dress she was wearing in her profile picture.

“Look who has finally remembered he has my number,” she texted back almost immediately.

You did the little dance that’s small talk, hoping to manoeuvre through it and finally ask her over, but she beat you to it when she said, “Gotta go but, can we hook up next Friday for a drink?” You wanted to bluetick her but you summoned enough enthusiasm to tell her it was a brilliant idea. You kept scrolling, bumping into a few potentials, but most of them were keen on catching a drink or having lunch, so you abandoned that mission, sighed, and downed Tinder. You skipped those with long bios and swiped right to those with nothing on their bios, exhausting your matches for the day within ten minutes. You dropped your phone to the floor, closed your eyes and cursed Leila.

Morning found you a little bit calm, but you still wanted to hammer your something into someone else’s something. So you checked Tinder again and to your delight, you had two matches. One of them was Saumu. Her bio said she offered Full Body Massage but when you sent her a message she said she also offers extra services.

“Does extra mean sex?” You were not in the mood to beat about the bush.

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“5K for two shots.”

“Shots of Tequila?”

“No. Two rounds of sex.”

“I just need one round.”

“Still 5k.”

“This is robbery but I am game. Can you come over now?”

“Yes.”

You dropped her your pin and not long after she was in your house, dropping her pants to her knees and fondling her breasts. You were on the couch, still in your shorts, your heart racing as you wondered just how much of a routine this was. You suddenly could not stop picturing her doing the same thing with a man battling syphilis, the imagery ruining the moment for you that you did not want to fuck again.

“Your massage services, how good are they?”

“Very good. Why?”

“I want to change my order if that’s okay with you. Same price?”

“Yes. But I did not come with my tools.”

“Perhaps next time, yeah? ” You said and watched her face contour into a frown. “But I will pay for them in advance.”

Her face smiled with a flash. “Thank you.”

“But do I get a receipt or something?” You said it as a joke, but she reached for her bag and brought out a receipt book. The letterhead read Saumu’s Massage Parlour. When she handed you the receipt you chuckled, looked at her as she dressed up, then thought maybe you should fuck her, then thought maybe you should not. You paid and walked her out.

Now, as you stare at the receipt, you wonder whether you should call her to redeem your massage, but you don’t. You instead text Leila and tell her about Saumu and her extra services. You expect her to ignore you but she does not. She sends you a thousand laughing emojis and finally says, “You are crazy.”

“I miss you, you know.”

“I miss you too.”

“Can I see you?”

“You can. But you have to behave this time. I don’t want us to have the same problem as last time.”

“We won’t.”

“Alright. Will be there in an hour.”

“An hour?”

“I had missed you too.”

You drop the receipt on the floor and start cleaning your room.

PS: I was all psyched up when I started writing this story but the steam just sort off disappeared into thin air. Or thick air. I really am not in a position to comment on the air’s body size. Anyway, since I wanted to kickstart this year with a blog post, I posted it anyway, because the Lord is my Shephered.

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