Bad Ones

There comes a times when all you do backfires on you
When she keeps mum and hurts
And still blames you for not knowing her problem
When your hi sounds bye
And your laughter mocks her
And your love just hangs there
Waiting for her to be the girl you knew
And she drops you an sms
” you can never make me happy”
And you feel your balls melting under the weight of self-loathe
Your heart doesn’t respond, it’s dried
The only proof that it lives on is the fact that you’re still alive
Your patience reserve isn’t rich
But you try to give her space
And pray, that you will change
For you’re always the bad one

Off My Chest

Sometimes it takes a little more than age and gray hair to understand situations. The fact that you saw the sunlight before I did doesn’t make everything I do wrong. Actions are not really the problem but rather the intentions behind them…And who said I don’t have my private life? I am an open book as you said. Covers already torn, read me but never edit what you never authored in the first place!

She Unchained Django

There are mysteries you are always yearning to unravel. In most cases you will plan how and when to see beyond what is exposed before eyes and hear what is heard in the mask of the silence of the surrounding. This wasn’t the case, I never knew I would be here in the first place and the thought of knowing her name had not struck my mind even once but here we were- strangers in the night, no were we still strangers? I guess not, after all the unpleasant treats nature had served us together at the fall of dusk; the rain that got us wet to the pants and the mud that sank our feet to the ankles we were more than strangers- at least we were friends, yeah friends who were about to cross a crucial boundary to an island known to many as ‘more than just friends’.

Sleeping in different rooms yet under the same roof with a woman not related to you by blood is quite impossible especially when you are not a victim of hypogonadism. With healthy testosterone levels, a phone on the bedside stool and a mind craving for venture of all things passion, the urge to press call button of impromptu sermon to the woman cannot be easily resisted, to be blunt it is irresistible when the Holy Spirit has refused to pay you homage at such unfaithful hours. I sat upright on bed and scrolled through my phone contacts for her digits. Having got it, pressing the green button become a challenge, my mind got crowded with ‘what if’ thoughts. What if she has slept and can’t pick the call? What if she is not alone in her room? What if she got angry and threw me out into the cold? No I’m not doing this, I dropped the phone on the stool and just then a thought struck me- what if she expected this and I failed her? Won’t that make me gay? Then it dawned on me that whatever I did or did not do at this instant had fruits both bitter and sweet and so I pressed the green button. She didn’t receive the call but hysterically rushed to my room as if it was on fire.

There she stood leaning on the door and watched me as I fumbled for words that could best serve a reason for calling her. Of course I hadn’t called her for a glass of water, I wanted something quite obvious, yeah your guess is right. I beckoned her to come and sit on the bed and she obeyed, all I could say was ‘I thought it weird for us to be sleeping under the same roof yet different rooms’ she didn’t have to speak for me to know she had the same thought. I pulled her arm and laid her next to me, facing me. The innocence in her eyes made me feel the in beast me, what was I really doing? Otoyo ne pok oriwga gi rombo (a hyena and a lamb has never been put together). For a minute I gently moved my fingers through her hair, she smiled I guess enjoying the touch. Fast forward, she sandwiched my lower lip between hers and slipped her tongue in. my heartbeat got faster as her lips caressed mine and for some seconds they got chained in momentary tight embrace.

Lying on my back, she mounted on me, clothes flying in air exposing a porcelain skin hidden beneath and two daring gate keepers of the chestlands. Her nipples prickling my chest sent ripples down me and I felt my Django raise its head. She bit my ear gently; the touch of her tongue on my pinna sent me to an earthly paradise. She moved her hand down the junction and cupped my package as if they were some mangoes on groceries stall, an act that irritated Django. An angry Django is a dangerous buffoon. As her lips glided on my skin I turned her ready to strike having given in to Django’s pleas just then she made an unexpected reaction, she covered her treasure with her left hand ‘we can’t do this’ is all she said, pushed me aside and began putting on her clothes, she wore her pants and stood facing the door, her nightdress in her right hand. ‘Sorry’ she said and walked briskly to the door, opened it and closed it behind her leaving me to burn in the fire she had lit.