Of Dildo, Masturbation, Jason, and Death- 1

!Readers Discretion is strictly advised. This article contains hard language and mature themes.!

I was about to masturbate for the second time when my cell phone went off in a maddening ringing. My underwear was halfway down, stretched between my succulent thighs and supple knees. Succulent like maple leaves and supple like pineapples, I tell you- among other flatters that had got my ears wobbling like a praying mantis on a mangrove leaf in autumn. White underwear written ‘Kiss Me’ in bright yellow.

It was hanging across my feet like a loop of stitching thread stuck in between the middle finger and the ring finger. I quickly pulled it up to the waist, letting the stretched elastic lining of the underwear retract on my skin like a catapult. I wiggled my dark hair behind my coconut head, like Arianna on stage, and buttoned my checked blouse to hide my nudity from whoever could be watching.

Before I dared to buy a pink dildo from Kims King boutique (it’s not on the Google maps, don’t even bother), a soapy detergent and a porn video were all I needed to induce an orgasm. There was the fun part of it, staring at the ceiling, legs wide apart, trying to relate to what I saw on the video, and having a vibrating plastic drill into my flesh. So addicted was I to masturbation that I scheduled it twice in the 24hrs daily program, before sleeping and after waking up. Like a mantra, masturbating was the first thing I did before the day began and the last thing I did before I fell asleep.

Yet, the satisfaction of it was not part of the bargain. I loved the thrill of losing myself for a few seconds. Those few seconds when I was far away from the madness of my small world was what really mattered to me; giving a smooth outcry, with a subtle moan, wow, and inaudible orgasm? And like any other soul on earth hungry for a pinch of sugar when burrowed underneath a heap of salt, I barely thought of the ethics of masturbation. Nor did I care about the judgment I would face when I die. Nor the angry flames of sulphuric fire that would consume my flesh if I went to hell.

Like you can guess, I was stuck in this dark hole, imprisoned by my inability to free myself from the addiction, all in the name of a five-letter word. A fucked up five-letter word that has changed lives, given life, and taken lives. After all, like Tokyo once said, love is a good reason for everything to fall apart.

Ten minutes before the call, I had just finished emailing my resume to the consulting firm I had visited earlier during the day. I made a call to my ailing mother assuring her that her daughter was fine, which was a blend of lies and pain. Although I felt hunted by a rage of guilt for not going to check on her, I never missed her at all. Not after she had turned in my father to the harsh police officers in a green Land cruiser when I was in the third form. When they took away my drunken dad in an old Toyota police car, I never saw or heard from him again. I tried to ask around, but in Kenya, you don’t go around asking for a typical drunkard empty-handed. The drunkard he was, I loved him. I loved his manly voice; I could hear him snore when he slept from my small bedroom. I loved his English when he had quenched his throat with liters of alcohol. I badly missed how we could call me his mother when I closed schools.

Anyway.

 I had already inserted the vibrator’s power cable to the three-holed socket, ready to dive my tired flesh into the drug of my choice, trust me, I was so good at this. I unbuttoned my blouse, my skirt flying across the ceiling. Then Crrring!- my phone went off in a ring.

 I groaned silently, more to myself than to the ringing phone, switching off the power at the socket. I reached out for my phone underneath the white pillow, wondering who the hell was calling me at such a time. I pressed the volume down on my phone, so the outburst of the ringing could ease on my ears. I blinked to the blinking lights on the screen, trying to read the caller ID. It was Jason like I had anticipated. Jason Mwaniki. My name is Colletta. And this is my story—a story of love, pain, drugs, more drugs, murder, and death.

What the fuck was Jason up to?

Allan

Author Allan

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