I have no remorse, only passion, when saying that. I shout from the roof-top with a megaphone shouting bitch! bitch! yeah bitch...
Wow! That feels better. Therapeutic. Marshal in the decadence of FIDA on my face. Sue me with the stench of women groups. The fact remain, Mary is the bitchest bitch in the bitching history.
I moved in the estate early last year and due to my busy schedule i rarely saw her. Whenever i did, my heart would gulp and knees weaken. I wished for a recognizance from her, a beckon from her manicured wicked finger, a haunt of husky voice, a beg to toy with her ample bosom.
I even rescheduled my school plan and lagged within the strategic positions of the estate a lot. She failed to rekindle my teenage-hood crush. Every time she chanced upon me, her gaze would be indifferent; the way you can view a wall on the hallway because you can see it.
Her eyes refused to collect the sightly pressed shirt of a lone brushing against her shoulder, the wearer strong in poise and confidence, a stretching smile revealing dazzling teeth. Her nose forfeited the alluring overtones of Yardley cologne, triple-applied this time for her sake, an appalling sacrifice. I tried again, then again. I eventually gave up.
I failed to understand why she, a rogue vixen, that nympho-wannabe, would discard my presence with indignation. You see, every day different cadre of men would pay ritual visits in her crib in an increasing frequency. White, blacks, reds. Luos, kalenjins, Kikuyus. I knew they were Kikuyus if they took a maximum of three minutes in her room.
I had to confront her.
I caught her just when a burly toad of a man scampered from her room tightening his leather belt with what looked like a satisfied grin on his sweaty face. I locked the door and eased myself on the seat before saying a crooked hi.
She opened her eyes large and upon seeing me, her pupils slit. Imagine, like a cat's. I felt elated. Two glasses of Old Admiral was having the desired effects.
"What are you doing here, John?" she hissed.
"Ahh! So you know mine name!" I almost hissed back but laughed contentedly. This was becoming pleasant than i thought.
"I have a visitor in ten minutes," a assertion.
"Ahh! Visitors...," I belched. "What fancy name rich for men-whore!" Dagger looks. Then furious serenity. The calmness on her face was unnerving. I regretted ignoring the third glass. "Ok, i got clarifications here ma'am. Am I not fit to be christened a visitor? Am i not a man endowed with two balls and a shaft? What do these men possess that i so lack? Balls of brass or a golden shaft! Huh?"
I watch her wince through the entire diatribe. her shoulders crumble, her eye-lashes crest-fallen. It suddenly hit me hard, looking at her insecurity, how young she was. Sixteen? Seventeen but hardly twenty. layers of mascara and cheap make-up had aged her considerably.
"Wallets," she was barely audible. "They have fatter wallets than you, John. As fat as their tummies girth. their minuscule, pitiable wee-wees are more satisfying when accompanied with shekels than your purported vivacious rod held in place by your mother's pocket-money. A girl like me cannot live by joyous thrusts alone but by every coin that emanates from such activity. Am sorry, John."
I was shattered. I was devastated.
In my room it became clear that money had rendered many men sex-less. A pitch for a dip.As giggles started wafting from the room beyond i felt like shouting, "SHUT UP BITCH!"
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