It was a tough decision as I was endeared to someone who constantly demanded ‘his’ share of body; because I did not understand how intimacy was shown outside of touching and teasing; because I did not know any other way to ‘love’. I wanted to know what life felt like outside of it and if I would find better if I stayed away from it. The thought of sex and the act itself had never given me long-lasting joy. So why stick to it?
Sex, around the years when I detested it, was a thing of disgust and a habit at the same time. I hated it because it made me vulnerable, emotional and left me open to all sorts of physical and mental injury. A habit - because of the men who noticed my love for sex and utilized every opportunity to cajole me into wanting it. Unfortunately, they really did leave me wanting.
The only reason I opened up was the hope for better, mind-blowing, back-arching, tear filled, fist clenching, out-of-this-world, pillow-screaming orgasms. Sadly, I never got it then.
Ironically, I got what I was looking for the day I decided to stop having sex.
I rested on the balcony door and stared at him.
He was a small man with an Afro who liked company even when he did not feel like speaking. This time he was alone in the dark.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“But we both know there’s something wrong. Your ‘nothing is wrong’ line is rather consistent these days.”
“Because there’s nothing wrong Honey. You good?” He asked.
“Yes. I’m good.”
The silence began again - the one we had been dwelling in for the past two months.
I went into his (bed)room, laid my back on the bed and focused on the ceiling till I dozed off.
The sound of his outer wooden door woke me. My eyes opened but I did not move. I did not want him to know I was awake. I continued my ceiling watch and then dozed off again.
Some minutes later, I was woken by hand movements in my below.
Not again. He did this too often. Demanding my body when I was as still as a brick.
I wanted to protest but a voice told me not to.
“Just lie there”, the voice said, “he’d stop”.
But he didn’t.
His hand moved up my tee and gently rubbed my left bosom while he ardently searched for an aroused tit. I did not struggle or try to push his hand away. I kept telling myself I was fighting the flesh, indeed.
Finding a hard nipple was all the consent he needed.
He was that kind of man that spoke to the body, not the owner.
I stiffened still. I would not be overcome by the carnal movement of ordinary fingers, flesh. I was stronger than that. The devil is a liar. I would not yield.
All through the struggle between my body and my spirit, I did not move. I moaned softly once or twice, yet refused to move any part of my body. Amazingly and all through this psychological battle, ‘Uncle’ did not bother to ask me if I liked it, if it was what I wanted, if I was willing. Instead, his hands furthered to my below once more. This time, in the bid to pleasure me - pleasure I did not want, request or imply.
He stroked her gently and continuously.
This was nothing. He would not overcome me. I would not open my legs. No matter how hard he tried. No matter how h..arddd.. he. he…he.. oh.. tried. Oh …my… my.
My body jerked. It won’t stop. Oh my! Oh my! Ohhhh my!
I could feel an orgasm coming.
It surprised me a whole damn lot!
I wanted to ask myself a thousand questions about how this could happen, in the way it did, without no penetration, no verbal or lip-interlocked consent.
I screamed that night. I hugged the pillow tightly with my clenched fists while I cried. My head was going to explode.
I pushed his hands away and turned to lie on my side. I wiped my tears and continued to focus, this time into darkness.
It was amazing and sad all at once.
I had planned not to see or visit him after that day.