Saturday, 25 April 2009

They say. . .#3: The end of the rainbow




I was at the gym, at a bench, loading up my bar with some weights. It was Easter the week before, and I was looking to work off all the celebratory gluttony that transpired. Then from the corner of my eye, I saw her walking toward me. She was hot. Kinda. She was toned. Well. She wasn’t fat. She was milfy. At least 15 years older than me I guestimated. Dressed in a lime green velvet gym Capri-pants that was tighter than a fat guy in spandex and a white vest that flaunted her assets quite extravagantly, her hair, tied back tightly making her seem a tad younger, but I saw through that. Her walk, rather spicy for the sweat clad halls of the gym, a look of kinky intent in her eyes.

She was still new to the gym, or at least to our timeslot. The only chicks that gym before work in the wee hours of the morning are whales and raggedy milfs, who funnily enough always seem to undress me with their eyes, which is so most uncool. So, anything this hot was eagerly ogled by the guys.

She walks to me, and gingerly, in a marshmallowey soft voice asks; ‘Could you help me please.’ Without giving away to much emotion I agreed, followed her to the leg press contraption, and helped her, thinking, why would she want to take the weights off here, if the leg-press machine that used the cable was open? When I was done, I said ‘cool’ and stealthily returned to my bench, too afraid to steal a look at her deep, brooding eyes.

Somewhere during my workout I noticed how she would just happen to be close to where I was. Where ever I was working out, she’d be within a 10m radius. At first it was kind of disconcerting, but after a couple of days I got used to it. Then one day I was in the aerobics room doing some abdominal toning. I was doing a side plank, facing away from the gym and its people. Then upon turning around to do the plank on the other side who’s plonked next to me? Ja. You guessed it. I thought to myself; ‘Damn woman, aren’t you married or something?’ Apparently not. She geared herself up to do knee tucks on the fitness ball, and I was busy doing crunches on my ball, when wwwoooops! She loses her balance and falls slap bang straight onto me, sending my ball ricocheting off the wall behind me. Her fall planted her soft body right onto me, her lips, inches away from mine, her twins, quite happy to see me from what I felt, caressing my chest like a freshly ironed jersey, her eyes, locked onto mine. She breathed in and unleashed a minty whiff of lasciviousness right into my face. It made my eyes tingle a little; ‘I’m so sorry, I just lost my balance,’ she whispered, and as she got up she slid up on me, knocking her bodacious buxom bosoms in my face and her love muffin over my family jewels.

I was speechless.

She walked away like nothing had happened, leaving me with a taut twanger and her card. . .

I thought to myself, you know what, I might learn a thing or two from this woman, it also doesn’t seem like she’s going to stop stalking me anytime soon. So I asked if we can meet somewhere away from the gym. We sat down for a coffee that Saturday, and from then on we became good friends.

We went out often, to movies, to shoot pool, stuff I liked, but also to watch ballets and opera and theatre stuff, things she liked as well. Our odd relationship was blossoming, but we were too afraid to tell our respective families. They wouldn’t understand.

Then one night, our romance reached its apex. She told me she was tired of us being just friends. She wanted more. She took me home with her, on the pretence that we were going to watch a movie there. Who was I to say no? She led me to her living room, sat me down, and said I should make myself at home, she was just gonna organize some snacks.

She returns a few minutes later, but with no snacks – or clothes. The dim light from the kitchen lighting her sturdy curves, accentuating every nuance of her supple skin, her hair, draped across her shapely shoulders like sunrays on the waterfront on a summer’s morning. Her lips glistening with strawberry lip-gloss akin to sauce drizzled onto ice cream. Her breasts like ripe apples, juicy and firm. Her stomach, enchanting, entrancing, as she waltzes towards me with libidinous ideas. Her eyes, provocatively looking down on me. Her legs, like pillars of marble, leading me to the pleasure palace of this amazing queen. She mounted me like a jockey about to ride the J&B met and kissed me passionately, while unbuttoning my shirt and rubbing my chest, she continued to undress me, then, my phone rang.

It was my girlfriend.

I was having so much risqué fun with her that I clean forgot to mention the fact that I had a steady girlfriend of 5 years. She was shocked. She couldn’t believe I’d taken her for a ride like that. But as I found out later, as a wife and mother of 3 children, she was a little bit too unchaste herself. I asked her why on earth she would want to pursue me in the first place, knowing that she was married. Apparently my father, may his soul rest in peace, pursued her when he was her age, and she was mine, and it was the best loving she ever experienced. When she saw me, she recognized him in me, and immediately craved for the raunchy times she spent with him again.

I followed the rainbow. I thought I found the secret treasure of a lifetime. An experienced minx whose words seduce men like a hot knife through butter, melting them away with consummate ease, but then, like Medusa, she turns to stone, her vengeance and wrath after what I done, is like a death-thirsty black widow, mustering every bit of her demented energy to destroy you, to end you.

She tried everything in her power to break me and my girlfriend up. She wanted me to fulfil her sick fantasies of the past. I refused. And in doing so she became the bane of my entire existence. Until one day she tried to commit suicide while talking to me on the phone. And on her death bed in the hospital before she died she dropped the bomb on me. My now wife-to-be could never be my wife. It was her child. She gave my fiancé up for adoption just after she was born. It was the love child of her and my father.

. . .

It was my sister.

This photo was taken at 08:04 on the 19th of September 2008. They say a picture speaks a thousand words, this on spoke 1168 words.

Sunday, 5 April 2009

They say #2: The Corridor



I find myself meandering through these passages again. Cold, murkily lit, the air drenched with the piercing smell of suffering and urine fused into a stomach-roiling cocktail of disinfectant and melancholy.

I’ve been here before. More than I would have preferred. I’ve seen my happiest days in these very passages, but some of the worst as well. But after the last time I vowed never to come back. The pain I faced then was unassailable. I used to laugh when I was younger. I used to sing. I always had a song in my heart. But life has now taken it away. I sit crying night after night, thinking how I’m going to survive another day with all these problems. Thinking back to all the things I’ve been through. Not knowing how I pulled through.

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3 years earlier

It’s been 3 years now that my father has left us. My mother, Trudy, used to cry day in and day out. Not knowing how her loving husband, Robbie, could just run away with another woman like this. She’s older than my mom, but this jezebel offers the joys of frivolous sex without the worries of a wife, children and a household to look after. It’s like he’s trying to be young again. Mummy doesn’t cry anymore. She replaced the tears with cigarettes. Her habitual vice has now mutated into a smog guzzling monstrosity that withers away our already exhausted budget and her already waning health, but she is oblivious to all this, and carries on wasting away her life. Samuel tries to help us out. He tries real hard. He’s the only member of our family that actually became something. He lives far away with his wife in Scandanavia, and is a physiotherapist for some or other sports team. I don’t know which one coz I’m not really a sporty kinda girl, I prefer reading a good romance book with a Rooibos tea to sweaty sports thugs.
But Samuel’s wife watches his finances and what he does like a hawk. She’s a nice person, but looks down on us, because of the lives we live. Mummy is a nicotine-chimney, Cape Calypso-guzzling loafer that sells herself to the sleaziest of men for an extra dime to put food on the table, a shadow of her former very successful self, my younger brother, Brently, totally lost the plot when his father left, and is now ensnared in a plethora of drug activity and messes with the wrong crew for the wrong reasons, trying to find a father figure in a gang leader, or comfort in gintus, or respite from the pain with drugs. Samuel used to be Rebecca this and Rebecca that, and she’s the best, and all that kak, until I ruined my own life with a total loser promising me the world and comforted me after my father’s death. I fell pregnant, and fell for the lies of these manipulative bullies who were much older than me thrice in two years, three different guys, but had one child aborted because there wasn’t a normal gap of 9 months in-between the second and third child. I found comfort in sex with these cretins, hoping I would find love and security from a man, something I didn’t get from my father, but all they were after was my vagina, which was now, well and truly overused. My dreams of becoming just like Samuel, successful, wise and prosperous, took a knock with my first born, and just totally vanished after the third pregnancy, along with Samuel’s trust and endorsement.

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I hold my mother’s hands with all these things rumbling through my head ferociously like a pair of shoes in a washing machine. She can no longer breathe properly. The emphysema and cancer has ravaged her entire respiratory system and has made her weak. Her addictions have caught up with her, but I’m thinking, that maybe this is for the best, this infliction, this hurt, can’t be more painful than the life she reduced herself to live. I pray. For the family, but mostly for her. I ask the Lord to forgive her sins, she is a good person underneath all this filth. She no longer has friends, shunned away by her family, but I tell her God is always there no matter what happens, God will always care. She looks at me, death etched into her face, suffering carved onto her lips, but in her eyes, I saw hope, in those yellow, bloodshot, cancerous eyes, I saw hope, then she closed them, and didn’t open them again. She had passed. But somehow I knew she was going to better place.

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Although my life is troublesome and jinxed, I cling onto the glimmer of hope that happiness and success can only be appreciated once you have suffered heartache and disappointment. God will not take us through these journeys, if he didn’t think we were strong enough.

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After her mother’s death, Rebecca used the money she received from the insurance payout to send Brently to rehab and to get his life back on track again. After a year of rehab he joined a soccer team, and is now playing regularly and
is off the drugs. Rebecca went back to college and studied while working to look after her kids and after 3 years got a degree in Marketing and now has a job and a loving husband and has turned her life around, all but cancelling out her dark and arid former life, but the memory of her mother, the inspiration not to repeat her footsteps and to be a better person.

This photo was taken at 14:51 on the 15th of November 2008. They say a picture speaks a thousand words, this on spoke 1145 words.