She told me girls love it when you brush their hair. She said, “Put your fingers through my hair, and do it like you want to blow me.”
I put my fingers through her hair, I did it like I wanted to blow her. I could feel her scalp, it was smooth like sheen, bumpy at some parts because of the many hairs that recoiled into one-another like cornrows, but it was all smooth, nevertheless.
She put her hands under my shirt, it was tight. My buttons were closely knit. I tried to unbutton, but she said, “Leave it, I’m feeling cold.”
So we’re standing in this room with my fingers in her hair, and her hands rubbing my nipples. She is breathing on my shirt, and the warmth of her breath is sipping through my shirt into my chest. The position is awkward.
I was deriving no pleasure from it, but she seemed to be enjoying it.
“Can we lye down? My back hurts.”
“Sure,” she said.
Here we are, lying on the bed, with my fingers in her hair and her hands rubbing my nipples. Its so uncomfortable, but I’m afraid to tell her I’d rather not be doing this, that it’d be better we kissed instead.
The sun starts to go down, she’s asleep, and I want to leave. I need to get going. Father put me on curfew, and it’s been that way ever since Mother got mobbed at the supermarket.
I’m fast asleep, and I feel her hands slid down my trousers into my inner briefs. I feel my boxers slack, I feel something crunch, then munch, then soften, then plank. She squeezes it with her fist and it is firm, like rubber.
I don’t want to move, I’d sleep here tonight. Father would understand, Mother would understand. I’d just tell them I had to pass the night here because of the mob.
She’s going down, I bring her head up to kiss her, but she wants to go down. I bring her head up to kiss her, she dodges. I kiss her neck, I plump her neck with my lips, I tip it with my tongue like a dot, like a patch of stew on a plate. I suck her skin and release it to dry.
The next morning, her Father comes into the room when we’re both asleep. He doesn’t say a word. He pulls my feet right off the bed and I bump my head on the edge of the bed. He drags me to the front door. All this while, I’m trying to get him to release me, but he’s really big, a retired boxer.
“I would have punched you, but you’re not worth the fight,” he says in his husky voice.
I mean to ask him about my sweater, my trousers, and my shoes, but the look in his eyes tells me he’s expecting that I’d ask for those items so he’d punch me.
Before the sun comes fully out, before the streets get packed with cars and bicycles, I better find a rag, or a cloth hanging somewhere on a liner and get home.
There’s a pillow on a cushion in the front yard, I snatch it and run off into the street. I’m trying to stop a taxi, but all the taxi’s won’t stop. They think I’m mad. So, I stand in-front of one, daring it to hit me, maybe if I could stop it I could then speak to him and he’d realize how sound I am, and know that I am not a mad man.
I’m in a green taxi, with a pillow on my private. My nipples are hanging out like joystick.
My mother is standing in the front yard, she’s got tea and a lipton bag on the corner of her saucer. She freezes.
“Good morning Ma! Its cold isn’t it?” I scurry pass her into the living room.
“Uh…Yes..it is,” she freezes again.
My father is on the dinning table, reading the papers.
“Good morning, Father! Its cold, isn’t it?”
“Young man, what the hell is this?! Breeda, can you see what I’m seeing?” He says to my Mother.
I escape into my room. I’ve got to hurry up, I’ve got Arts class in two hours, and my students must be waiting for me.
Its Portrait Day. Yesterday I asked them to paint me the most shocking thing they’ve ever seen.
I get to class, there’s a painting of a naked man along the Victoria Island express way beside the many other paintings near the classroom board.
“Who drew this?”I ask.
She steps out. She is seventeen, the only white girl in my class. Her name is Sienna Miller. I’ve always found her name to be pretty tussle and cliche for a girl that pretty. Sienna should be the name of a car.
She stands up, she’s looking at me like she knows what I did last night with Isabella. She won’t stop staring at me that way(even after I ask her to sit).
The man in the painting has a pillow around his privates, his buttocks are really small like pea nuts, and he is standing in-front of a green taxi.
When the class Is over, I ask Sienna to wait behind.
“That’s a beautiful painting. Where did you see this?”
“See it? Mr Cupid, it just came to me to be honest. I know you said we should draw something shocking that we’ve seen before, but to be honest, I haven’t really seen much in my life, so I drew this.”
I’m staring at her, trying to detect the signs of a chronic liar– the twitch, the hand nibbling, but I can see nothing. It must be a mere coincidence that the man in the painting is me. All is fair in love and art.