Fiction: When A ‘Good Evening’ Is Not So Good After All

By Oyindamola Bamgbola

 

 

I spent my evenings drinking too much.

There was nothing else to do.

My best friend lied too often and loneliness held my hand too tight as I lay on my bed moping at the roof of my empty room.

I had to indulge myself. Make the evenings worthwhile. Get away from it all.

The lies my friend told… the babbling of my parents… the pressure to be what I was not… the cheap men that wanted to a piece of me… ambition…

I was too young for it all.

I had to get away.

One of these evenings cannot be erased from my memory. In ten years, twenty or sixty…

It started out beautiful…

I had had four little cups of Don Simon; they went down too quickly. Seven hard gulps. I liked to feel woozy quickly, laugh early and walk home late, right before the hard-hearted gateman locked the gate.

As I walked towards the punch guy to get a fifth cup, a certain character walked up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder… I stared hard at the guy. He looked very familiar…

“Yes?”

“Hi.” He was smiling too much.

“Hi. Yes?” I tried not to be rude.

“I’ve been watching you from there all evening, and you look like someone I should be talking to.” He was still smiling too much.

“Oh really?” He sounded smart. I had never gotten that pick up line.

I looked at him, from bottom to top. He looked like someone I should have been talking to.

I really cannot remember the rest of the conversation but I know he made me laugh a lot that night. I guess I gave him my number.

He called. Four days later. I couldn’t remember who it was. I remember he described many people and many things. I still could not remember. When he finally mentioned what I had drunk that evening, I remembered… that I had a conversation with a certain individual. I couldn’t still remember his name or anything he had said about himself. I did not take anything seriously when alcohol was involved.

He gave up. He kept calling after that day. I had to remember him.

He re-introduced himself a week later, in the afternoon. We became friends and hung out in the evening. He was fun. Different and adventurous. We talked a lot, in person and over the phone. Then he said one day,

“…I want my kids to look like you.”

It was too funny. I laughed at him. There was no attraction. Well, on my part… he maintained what he said; he added some other serious lines. He wanted to introduce me to his mother. Little me. I was thrilled. I was wife material. Ok… and we became boyfriend and girlfriend.

We were real friends. We talked about every thing. We walked the length and breadth of school. He knew my future plans and did everything in his power to get my career started. I knew his future plans and did everything in power to encourage him. We gossiped. We hugged a lot. He was my teddy bear. We took solace in each other. He knew I was a terrible liar and I knew he entered depression more often than I did. We were real friends.

He knew I had never had sex. He cherished me that way. But we had to make-out. It was inevitable.

Kissing my friend felt very weird. His lips were too big and they covered every part of my mouth. His laying over me felt even worse. He was too heavy. His chest felt like a breastplate and it pushed hard on my lungs and made my breasts uncomfortable. He slobbered all over my ear so much that it seemed a bit of saliva made its way to my eardrum. He squeezed my breasts too hard and did not focus on the core. He ignored my nipples. He did the moaning while I lay there trying to decide whether to put my hands on his back or continue laying there as I prayed that that part of my day would end in a few seconds. The lights were always off; and that was the only good part.

Then I woke up to a text one morning: “Hello, my runaway princess”. I did not have the number saved and the body of text carried no name. I had absolutely no idea who it was. I told my boy-friend and he told me to ignore the text. The person would call. He did.

He was someone I met twice… and we did not speak on anything tangible on both occasions. How I had become his princess was not clear to me. Opportunist, I thought to myself.

He came over one evening, very late in the evening. He was all over me. He told me how he had tried on those two occasions to chat me up but our intermediary had blatantly refused him because of his own plans for me. He told me how he had gotten the chance to steal my phone number. He told me he liked me a lot and I would be seeing a lot of him. He told me he was a very busy man but he would create plenty time for me. His personality did not allow me say anything substantial. He was overwhelming. He carried himself well and his English sounded interesting. He was a charmer and a sweet talker. I just could not help but listen. On his way out, he hugged me too tight and kissed me on the forehead. He left a good impression.

When my boy-friend asked if the stranger had called, I lied. I said he never called.

I spent my afternoons with my boyfriend and most of my evenings with the stranger. It was a good look; I could avoid most of the make out sessions. I told my boy-friend I was going to the movies, the beach, a bar, a show… about four times in a week. He did not argue or kick against my new habit. He could not afford to take me out so he let me go. He knew I was lying.

My evenings with the stranger were pleasurable. We played a lot of Mortal Kombat, drank a lot of vodka, pulled unusual stunts for the heck of it – paying for a studio session just to mess around, sitting on third mainland bridge at 2 a.m in the morning laughing and jumping around listening to rave songs. I drove his car, with him and his friends in it. He put enough money in my pocket when he saw I had fallen asleep from drinking too much. He treated me like a queen…

But there was a problem. I had a boy-friend. One that cared for me. The stranger knew I had a boy-friend. I told him. But it did not deter his coming on to me, sexually. He tried, oh he tried. We had included kissing in our activities. That was all I could offer. When he grabbed my breasts, I smacked his hands. When he smacked my bum, I slapped his face. He was not meant to do those things. I had a boy-friend.

He would stare at me for too long in the middle of interesting movies. Stares that aroused commotion inside me. My nipples would grow hard and evident. Blood would rush to the central station between my legs. I would move some inches away from him. I would not feel so guilty that way.

My boy-friend and I had a fight one evening. He had annoyed me. Although it wasn’t enough for me to want to call the relationship off, I proposed it anyway. He did not argue or accept my proposal. He just walked away. He called me in the morning. He was sorry notwithstanding that I was in the wrong; he did not want us arguing. I had heard. I liked to put up a front. I had an alternative.

That evening, the stranger came. He said he had had a hectic day and only I could take the stress away. So we cuddled while we watched an interesting movie. The movie was interesting. The one that happened that evening. He kissed my ears and nibbled on my earlobes. I giggled. He kissed me hard and long. I did not resist. He kissed my neck and went down to my breasts. He cupped my bra in his hands and kissed my nipples through them. I did not smack him; instead I pushed my chest closer, towards his mouth. He brought my breasts out of my bra and sucked on them hungrily. I had begun moaning. He lifted my skirt and took off my panties. His finger caressed my central station. It felt different. Sweet. I moaned in a different way. I felt too wet and I tried to close my legs. It was embarrassing. He wouldn’t let me. He put his finger and his mouth there. I leaked some more. Then he took him out and came towards me. I shook my head vigorously. He kissed my lips and hushed me. Then he tried. He pushed himself in. It was painful. I told him to stop. He told me to relax. I listened and leaned back. He did not push this time. He buried himself in. I screamed and moaned together. He kept going and I kept moaning. He came out. He told me to bend. He buried himself in again and kept going. The pain outweighed the pleasure. Then I told him to stop. STOP!

I had not realized what we were doing.

“Did we just have sex?” He rolled his eyes at me. “Obviously”.

That was the end of his evening. He got up, packed his things, kissed me on the forehead and told me he would call me when he got home. He didn’t call.

 

 

This post was first published on Hivesandotherdrugs.com