You were a boy of your plump erection; so thick with the nimble
intent to do-it and always do-it.
This force; this static electricity that sluiced through your body
like wire shock, this uprush; this inventing fluid that surged through your
veins and connected your sinuses with sighs so strong; this can’t just be
explained in a singular noun word – sex. Even that is a misjudgement of the
blissful blood that coursed through your system. For the word ‘sex’ is brief
and briefly pronounced. Those feelings you were always left with, in and after
those emotional processions, were eternally transforming; they were not
transient. For this, you must not call it ‘sex’, it should be pronounced
‘sexing’; that is continuous, for you never had the satisfaction of having it
once.
The day you were caught with Titi was the day you temporarily
stopped.
The day you were seen in the main act wasn’t the first time you had
done-it– you have always had sexing before
then; in masturbation, wet-dreams and with CDs, before you eventually did
it in your house and on the couch with Titi.
You have always done this. Yes. I mean it when I say you’ve always
done-it. And many times have you always escaped. You didn’t just know you have often
had sexing in the past. You thought
you have only been pleasuring yourself before the day you filled Titi’s deep
recess immediately after school hours that Friday. There have been days your sexings were without two teats and a moist hole. Your only tool then was the white unlabelled
discs you accumulated through your video vendor. Plain white discs you always
told your Dad were backup CDs of some software and document on your laptop. But
you and the vendor knew otherwise, they were Mojos.
Other times, when you were not playing these discs on your system in
your room, where you would silently moan, excitedly pinch yourself and mobbed the starchy drops on the bed you sat upon; you would steal into
the palour when your parents had gone to sleep and tune down the volume of the
TV as images acrobatically displaying fleshes, wetness and feverish moans
screened before you.
You remember the night your Mummy expected you to have been in
bed? The night she screamed and hurriedly woke up your Dad for fear that fire
was gutting the house from the parlour? The same night she mistook the
ball-room colourful lights the TV was beaming in the darkness the parlour was
in, which bounced on the walls in different cinema beauties and slit through
the curtains of the adjacent rooms close by, one of which was your parents’?
As she was rushing to the parlour with your Dad and with the clear
fear of horror on her face, she saw your shadow on the wall and thought you
might have been caught in the fire. She screamed. Can you remember how you had
balanced the TV remote in your left hand as you widely spread your legs and
examined how your shame grew thick? Can you recall how swiftly you dialled
another station and cover the budge between your legs with the dining napkin as
her scream jolted you? When they saw you balanced on the couch, they felt
relieved and told you off on staying up late watching the TV. They were also
angry the neon lights from the TV had given them the impression fire was touching
the house. You lied your Government teacher had asked you to watch the recorded
proceeding of Obasanjo’s attempted impeachment, which was what you told them you were doing watching News @ 10 on Channels.
When next you are asked to define sex, now you know how to. Use your
experiences. And please, start by saying it is called sexing and not sex.
