The sad moments, the surprises, the exotic passion, it had everything all in one. I loved spending time with him, playing with him and teasing him about the shape of his head – like ọkpa (a type of food). Sam was so playful to a fault. He could kiss my armpit, nose, waist, ears, navel, eyes, suck my fingers and toes, and even lick my face.
I had broken up with a very stupid nigga I sacrificed my being to, and had wanted a kind of warmth to make me feel all right. The nigga was my first love. We had promised each other forever and I had gone stupid miles, just for him.
When he left, he literally took my soul with him. I gave up on everything. My life came crashing down right under my nose. I neither took school nor church seriously, nothing.
I just slept, woke up, spent a lot of money on fast-food and slept off again while watching romance movies. I would wake up to vertical lines marked on my face by dried tears.
I was so sure I didn’t want such life for myself. Pals complained. I knew it was so wrong, but it felt like I was being controlled. I couldn’t help it. The pain and bitterness couldn’t let me lift a finger to do something good, not even for my life. I had invested a lot into that relationship.
It was that moment that Sam came. I wanted to write my memoir and needed a ghostwriter. My roommate recommended him. He had a thing for passion and romance, I noticed from his chats. Though I was a client, he would call me ‘baby’ and send heart emojis.
Deep, I felt to have something with him – a kind of relationship that was neither professional nor commitment. Every time I contacted him, I wished for something that would let us gum our bodies together, that sort of intimacy. It had been a while and I felt I was slowly going back to being a virgin.
From our chats, he made me fantasize things that left my underwear wet. I was the type of girl that wasn’t afraid to confess her feelings to a guy. However, I didn’t know if he would want the same thing as me. I kept off.
The night he delivered the manuscript, he told me he wanted me and I had spelt things out for him – friends with benefits. He agreed accordingly. The first benefit came that night. His was very different – a mixture of pleasure and violence.
While we rested, facing the ceiling and watching the rotation of the fan. I had asked him why, and he had replied, “I don’t make love, I fuck.”
Continue Reading: 9ine Months-2
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