Kinky

     He hasn't taken his eyes off you all evening, you remember then, he was sitting across from you, you were wearing a man's shirt and short shorts reading a book , and you will look up from your book and your eyes will met with his.

  You knew you had started to like him because of  his accent, that not so Nigerian accent laced with American English,  he wore glasses with black rims which he perched on his nose, when he talked to you.  He would discuss with you deep stuff about how Igbo language was losing its relevance , religion,   politics.  Half of the stuff you enjoyed, and intelligibly reply him, and try to  make him talk about him not just quantum physics.   

       You knew how he cooked and you washed the dishes, made you breakfast in bed, on cold mornings, while you lay between thick folds of  blankets . You had moved in with him, though you still kept your own flat. You had been with him six months , but you still didn't know his favorite color, or the soup he liked, apart from the day you found out, you made him orah soup to surprise him on his birthday.  You were wearing that dress, the one with slits at its sides, and opened at the back,  it was 14 February then, when he told you he loved you , and you were wearing that same dress. 

   He was your first, and that night, he was squeezing your breasts like oranges, you pressed his body too tight to yours as you moaned ,  sex with him at first,  felt  electrifying, you didn't know if it was the way he started slow, the tip of his penis easing out and in, before he filled you completely.  Now you had started to wonder if there was anything more to sex than the missionary position he always insists on. 

  So one morning  you had gone for coffee, and you feel a weird attraction to this man sitting there in the coffee shop eating what was supposedly breakfast , you smile to him.  You invite yourself to his table, and start talking to him, a bit unusual for a picky conversationalist, you didn't talk to strangers, nor men in just a pair of jeans and T-shirt on a Monday morning, you thought them unserious. 

  Right from the  get-go you notice that he and  Kene, were different. 

 He is not that tall and thin, while Kene is tall and fit. He wore starched shirts and trousers, Kene wore jeans and T-shirts.  He is yellow, so light -skinned almost like albino, where Kene is dark. 

  

  He is serious and ambitious.  Kene is funny and a free folk, and happy to paint artworks for a living . 

  He is complicated and speaks deep English words, but with Kene, you can just  be human, he didn't need to begin conversations talking about those deep stuffs, and quantum physics. You never had to think too deep about what to say next, with him, it just comes to you, and you talked about things you both loved.  With him, you had to always prove yourself , read the paper . And you argued endlessly about things you didn't care about. It gets tiring, sometimes, to be the beauty and brains different from the all other women.  Deeply, you just want to share the little things that spark your soul, that lay alone in your mind. 

  The sex was like discovering that there weren't just one way to enjoy ecstasy, sometimes you were on top, on other days you tied him down and made him say your name, it was also spontaneous not planned.  He gave you a kind of wildness. It was kinky. 

  You are sitting at the breakfast table, telling him this things, you notice a thread  of tear escape his eyes. 

  "I love you. But I love him too" .  You pause, and wonder if it was possible to love two men you shared qualities you wanted in a man.   He was narcissistic, always talking about things he knew, with him you felt ignored. You loved the fact , he knew things how deep he was. But conservations wasn't something to be tiring, it was about baring souls in the sparest moments, with Kene, you felt that way. He always wanted to know what you  thought.  He cooked your meals, Kene, took you out to lunches and dinners, there was something so real about dressing up and going out.  With him, you had to just always sit at home, though you loved the silence, since you worked from home, you always wanted more, spontaneity.  And the sex was kinky, kinky please.  It made you explore your sexuality, in ways, you didn't imagine. It was better than laying powerless .

   You have packed the last box of your books, and he is still sitting at the breakfast table crying, as you mean to leave, he raises up and rush to hug you tightly. 

   "if you want kinky, I would give you kinky. Just don't go".

You are laughing, that your tight cornrows threats to spill from their knots.