-The Author.
Dearest Mandy,
Find enclosed in this envelope pages from my
journal.
Love,
Jonas.
PS. Forgive me.
NOVEMBER 13, 2015.
Today I miss home. I miss winter and the cold. I
hate the cold here though. It's nothing but acrid air that cuts like daggers. I
loathe the Harmattan. I don’t like Ghana right now.
As usual, work was the usual.
I miss Mandy.
NOVEMBER 16, 2015.
…It was good seeing Araba again at work today. I
wish I had gone with her and my other colleagues to Takoradi on the three-day
Marketing Seminar. However, I had figured I'd stay behind and enjoy some alone
time. I'm glad I stayed behind. All the same, I missed Araba and as far as
social conventions went, I had greeted her with a box of chocolate and a kiss.
In retrospect however, I may have lingered on her cheek a bit too long. Ah! Who
cared, aside us both of course. She had tugged my tie gently drawing me to her
and whispered, 'Tomorrow. 8 o'clock.'
Kwame had been eyeing us all the while but he
didn't see the zipper-flap of my khakis stiffen. Casually, I'd tugged the bottom of my jacket
to hide the new bulge in my pants and walked off to my cubicle in a prance. I
wonder how wide I was smirking.
NOVEMBER 17, 2015.
As usual, work was the usual. All day, I kept
watching the time. I'm a patient man am I not? After work I took a detour on
the way home. I needed gas and I needed food. I bought a burger. I wasn’t
eating anything heavy for I needed to stay in shape for tonight- literally. I
bought some lube and a pack of rubber too. Maybe I was a bit antsy about tonight.
In these past few days of being out of close proximity with Araba, I had had
time to think about both of us. Predominately, I as quite skeptical about the
morality aspect of our relationship. But Araba and I are friends are we not? We
were definitely not the strictly-friendly sort of friends- we were the
beneficial kind. Regardless of this assertion, I was still looking forward to 8
pm tonight…
…and Araba's home was beautiful. I guess being
the only child of an political mogul had its perks. I took a breath mint and
pressed the doorbell. I waited. I looked at my wrist. It was 7:59 pm by my
watch and my watch was a tad faster than GMT. Maybe I was too early. I rang the
doorbell again nonetheless. This time the door opened almost instantly with the
sexiest version of Araba I had ever seen standing in front of me. Damn! The
coast had surely done her good. She smiled softly and for a second I stood
mesmerized. She embraced me with a bosom-filled hug. I couldn’t help but take
in the scent of her hair. It smelled like olives. She led me inside to the
living area where she had set dinner for two.
Dinner was rather unusually long. We talked and
laughed and reminisced- all this forced of course, for Araba had been gone for
just three days and we both knew why I was really there. The sincerity of how
fond she had grown of me was outstanding however- one commensurate with true
love. But Araba and I weren't in love…
After dinner we shagged on the sofa. Then in the
bedroom and in the shower, and finally on the sofa again. Turns out, she hadn't
the slightest need for lube.
NOVEMBER 22, 2015.
My alarm went off at 7 am. Oddly enough, I loved
Sundays. Aside the prospect of playing tennis with Sena every Sunday morning, I
enjoyed scrutinizing the acts of TV ministers while I drank my morning juice.
This morning's session aired one of my favorites, Bishop Obinim, and he was
lying on top of a woman in a bid to exorcise her I assumed. My knowledge of the
Akan language was still in the most elementary of stages but I did not need a
translator to realize how perverse this man was…
…Sena was my boss' secretary. After running into
her one Saturday morning on my first visit to Joe Might's Gym, we had both
agreed to meet every Sunday to play tennis. Although I had never stepped good
in her tennis cap and sports bra. Her shorts did very little to keep her arse
in place as well. She was bodacious and she knew it. She particularly seemed to
enjoy it whenever my eyes lingered on the crevice of her bosom. She would
flaunt her curves at me and I would acknowledge them with a stiffening in my
shorts. She noticed this of course and thus led to our first indulgence in the
women's lavatory. It was quite intense since we had to round up forty minutes
of coitus into a five minute quickie. I
hadn't anticipated how strenuous it would be but after a minute I was well
adjusted. She had somewhat climbed atop me and pushed me to the wall.
Subsequently my movement was very limited yet my pelvis worked its way around
her crotch like a ball-and-socket joint, thrusting up and hard. Each gasp she
took was punctuated by a hard yet soft moan. She moaned like a siren drawing me
closer to wreckage. It was over in a flash. We both straightened out our
clothes and agreed to meet the following Sunday. I love Sundays.
NOVEMBER 23, 2015.
I took a taxi to work today. It felt good to be
driven for a change. I checked my mail and came across an archived mail I hadn’t
ever bothered to read. It was sent by Araba about a week week ago. It felt
pleasant to read. At least it until she signed off with ‘I love you’. I was in
fix. I hadn't realized it soon enough. I loved Araba enough not to hurt her but I
didn’t love her…
It was hard seeing her today. Seeing Araba at
work wasn’t what was uncomfortable. Being around other women and knowing Araba
was close by was. But Araba and I weren’t lovers were we? Casual partners-
that’s what we were and yet every time she saw me smile at Sena the secretary,
her face clammed into a mix between a hateful stare and heart-broken one. I
knew she had heard the office-rumor about Sena and I but I had hoped she wouldn’t
be bothered. Clearly she was. At times like this, I think about Mandy then
about Araba and Sena then about Mandy again.
Maybe I will rot in hell. They say men are dogs. I guess I'm a Great Dane.
Maybe I will rot in hell. They say men are dogs. I guess I'm a Great Dane.
