Last weekend I started dating. Again. After a long hiatus. And it is not easy. Already.
My friend Aisha goes: ‘You must meet Paul, he is so sweet!” And yes, he is. Just like life. Short and sweet. Am five four and a half. In heels. If I can see your bald patch, big trouble. I smile. My eyes peer into the shine. Tempted to check if my grin reflects. He doesn’t notice. He is having a conversation with my gals. Chaperoned by Wonderbra. We do dinner. He is witty. And thoughtful. And also very short. I fight the urge to glance under the table all evening. Do his feet touch the ground? I wonder. What the hell. I drop a fork. But a zealous hawk scoops it before it hits the ground. Great service my foot! No tip for Spiderman.
Wednesday is ladies night. Karen’s big brother Rob in tow, I hit the town. He is big and black and brimming with testosterone. Yet gentle and sensitive. I think. Aaah! Cry no more Africa. Your sons have done you proud! After the 3rd, Martini? He bursts into tears. He is so misunderstood, he howls. Nobody cares about his feelings. I offer my shoulder. Christians are right. These must truly be the last days.
Then comes Thursday. Mark says, “Meet my brother this evening”. Mark is a hunk. I believe in God. And then in Darwin. All his Gene Pool gibberish. So I go. Yes, he is big. Everywhere. Especially his girth.. Big, bad, taut and rounded. But that is not the issue. There are other issues. Two actually. The man has breasts. Yes. Breasts. Jostling under his golf shirt. The most perfect pair you never saw.. These are not man boobs. There is an upward swell and a perkiness that makes me shy. Those gals belong in a harness. Am thinking 36 B or C? Mmm… Then his big manly hand gently tilts my chin upwards. He gazes deep into my eyes. Seduction. My nipples squirm. My brain freezes in terror. I barely know how to touch my own twins. Let the record reflect. Am a very straight woman.
And a warrior. Apparently. I even go out the very next night. With girlfriends. Thankfully. There is a man watching from across the room. He is sixty and a day. He struts over rather cockily. Makes a beeline for me. Of course. This is my week. He moves his hips to the music. Because he is white, his whole body goes with them. He flays his arms. And violently jerks his head. I watch his mouth. I am looking for foam. But no. It smiles. This is a mating dance. Mercy! I flash my drink down my throat. There has got to be a better way.
Last night I stayed home. And surfed the world. I met a soldier. And a French eye doctor in India. And a Mexican who likes curvy black women. Then an Arab proposed. A Moroccan asked me to strip. An English man started to strip. A Ghanaian boy asked me to be his Mommy. Such is the life. In 4 hrs I dated 9 men. Almost simultaneously. Is this legal? Or moral? But it sure was fun! A webcam and a Gig sure beat a club. Anytime. At least they kept their breasts, seizures and tears to themselves! Neat.
This is Sunday afternoon home alone. Church and lunch done away with. A fleet of suitors in my 3 G modem. 2 blankets and a duvet on my bed. A cat, a book, a movie and I in my lounge. Dating in the 21st century. More alone than ever. My friend Mercy calls. Her cousin Solo wants to meet me. I am weary. What else is next? And a third eye? When will it end?
My feline friend leaps up the couch. She stretches. Then she prances up my chest and sticks her tail in my face. Demanding attention. I rub her back. So soft and fluffy. She purrs contentedly. In that purr I see the movie about my life. 300 cats and I. On this continent? No! They will lynch me! Mchawi! I pick up my phone. I call Mercy, “Tell me more about Joel… or is it Sol!” Aluta Continua! The strangle continues.