Sundays are for sex. That’s how it is and that’s how it always was.
This ritual carried me and my boyfriend through our short relationship of the summer of 2011. In my dorm, I liked pulling up my blinds to allow the sun in. It would turn everything into gold, and my bed would be warm from its touch. Sometimes, we’d have sex at his res, sometimes we’d go to mine. His dick was big enough to make me scream in genuine pain, blood staining my bed sheets. But sometimes, we were as unified as the sea, writhing together till climax.
I’ll be honest with this though: when Jaco and me started having sex, I didn’t love him yet. A part of me— it’s still scary to discover how big—only let him Bleep me because he was white.
There’s this thing between white and black people. Though they hate each other, their greatest desire is to Bleep each other. I suppose it’s the exoticness of the idea—two differently-colored bodies combining into one. Growing up, my ideal man was Ridge Forrester fromThe Bold & The Beautiful.At twelve years old, I would finger myself with his image fixed firmly in my mind. His solid body would press against my tiny one. He would stick his nose in my face— because all white people on TV had long noses. I would run my fingers through his dark hair that was as silky as sex itself. Jaco was my Ridge.
We’d met in a jurisprudence tutorial in our first year of varsity. However, it was only in second year before he responded to my attraction. I still have the incoherent notes I took during class when all I did was drool at his body. His shoulders were broad, and he always wore tight shirts to accommodate his muscles, even in winter. My fingers would tingle at the thought of touching his blonde hair, which smelled so good I would go to sleep with the smell of masculinity still in my nose. He had blue eyes that would get brighter when he laughed, wrinkling the sides of his face.
The day of our first conversation, he had no deodorant on. The smell of his sweat clung in the air, but I liked him more because of this. It made him seem real. More human. After hearing that I came from Lesotho, his eyes lit up. He said he’d spent a week there because his father was opening up a Midas in Maseru. He told me I had a beautiful country and that he hoped to see it properly one day. I told him to come in winter. Though the cold is maddening, I told him, Lesotho in winter is like stepping into a frosty fairytale.
“Are you going back there for December recess?”
I said yes.
“Maybe one of the winters I could come with you”
At the time, it was the most romantic thing a boy had ever said to me. I pictured us in Lesotho, making love in a wooden cabin while snow covered the land. In the fantasy, I was wearing a bra and told him I couldn’t take it off. This was because my breasts were darker than the rest of my body, as if I’d splayed them in the sun for twenty-four hours. When I was little, I would wear them around like a curse. But this was before I lost my virginity. I’d slept with eight boys so far. Leballo, the fifth, was the first one I’d allowed to see my breasts. From then on, I let every boy I slept with see them. None of them had indicated that anything was wrong. But Jaco was different. Jaco was white.
*
I was in a lecture hall, sitting as far from the front as possible. Four weeks had passed and me and Jaco were still flirting. I didn’t know what to call our relationship. He texted me in class every day. Sometimes, he would text me things that made me laugh so hard it felt as if there was a jumping rock in my belly. Once, my English lecturer even made me stand outside the hall like I was in high-school again. I didn’t care. Jaco’s name trailed behind my every thought, even the random ones.
Jaco: [Guess what?]
[What?] I texted back.
[Done with semester tests. Free the ENTIRE WEEK *waits for celebratory ululations*]
[That’s awesome! Good for you!!! *ululates celebratorily*]
[Wanna meet at the end of the week? At someplace secret? Or will you be at church then?]
[I’m atheist…Why do you want to meet?]
[I’ll tell you when we get there…but kool! My place or yours?]
My heart leapt. However, as my quivering fingers typed the reply, I realized I was scared. Why was I scared? This was Jaco, the boy I’d liked since forever, and he was asking me out on a potential sex-date.
I had this annoying tendency of thinking about my mother whenever boys asked me for sex. I don’t have a dad. He left when I was six years old. Back then, my mother worked as a waitress at KFC, but she was a General Manager now. I pictured her shouting orders in a steamy backroom that smelt of oil, unaware of the shortening powder staining her cheeks. At ten-o’clock, she would join the crawling traffic of LakeSide—taxis, Jeeps, and imports, machines coaxed out by the promise of night. In Lesotho, roads are narrow and life is slow. The cars move slowly as well. The malls are tiny. The politics robust, and the people hug each other when they meet in the street. Everyone knows everyone in Lesotho.read full story at http://luckymoonzone.wapka.mobi/forum2_theme_111038683.xhtml?tema=11