I woke up this morning with my heart pounding. This was the day I carved out for a crazy sex. I should be judged by you, but before then, listen to my story.
“The day I gave birth to you, papa got a contract that changed our lives.” Mummy would smile with eyes rimmed with hope or better still faith. To us, the story of my birth meant I was a bringer of good fortune. I prayed to God when things became dramatic in the house—like the ugly lawyer who came to my house with two hefty men who harassed my parents. They kept throwing our things outside because we could not renew our rent. My mum was dying in my arms and I could not help her; the list could go on—it never got better.
I made commitments like joining the born-again fellowships in school, chanting prayers and not attending parties nor having a sugar daddy till I graduated. Let’s say I chose my path to please the God that my mum showed me.
Right now, I have a meeting with my first client and I am going to have my first sex with a stranger. Well, not for money, but a yearning to dent my life in case God held me hostage.
Papa said God was loving—a loving father. All I wished was for my sins to become bigger and then God could end His love escapades with me.
I wore a hanging blouse made of wool and a blue jean torn at the knee (rugged jean, as we called it), looked at myself in the mirror with my neatly weaved hair; I still looked pure: harmless. I took a wig from the nail fixed to the wall of my room and wore it, ignoring my hair band; I allowed the hair to caress my shoulder. I stained my lips with a red lipstick, I looked wild and sexy like the women in the love magazines I started reading. Unlike them, I was small and dainty.
“Hello. Mummy, I am in your street.” He sounded like a typical Igbo business man. I haven’t met him except from the Facebook chat, but I knew he would come with a sophisticated car, pot belly and a gold wrist watch. I knew he would say “You are beautiful,” and he would smile with pleasure in his eyes.
“Good morning, sir.” My belly tightened and made a sound.
“Beautiful baby, the morning is not just good today. It is best.” Exposing his oil coloured teeth and the gap between his premolar made him charming. He kept stealing a glance at my face as we headed to the hotel room.
“Seems you are a learner.” He sounded dissapointed when he asked for a blow job and I recoiled from his arms. He used the word ‘job’ when he said I could not do my job well and I should ask my colleagues. Filthiness overwhelmed me. I couldn’t touch myself anymore, and all the time he was inside me thrusting hard and moaning, I didn’t feel an ounce of pleasure. I only thought of God leaving the precious me, and while I was in the bathtub; I scrubbed so hard with my sponge to wash my sins away. I thought of my mum holding out her rosary beads with humble lines drawn on her forehead praying for God’s mercy and blessings, and I wished I could hold on to faith or maybe just hope of a tomorrow with good fortunes