By Wisdom Mumera.
Harare, Zimbabwe. (News Of The South) – Sex is all mental. You feel what you think. And you are as erotic as the amount of X-rated images that you conjure up in your mind.
You tell yourself all this psychological cold dish in an effort to wear down the throbbing and erect phallus. But it does not work since you are two man in one body.
One of you is pleading that you just rise and walk out of the door and flee back to your cold bed, and sleep off any strange sensations that your body is growing.
However the other you will have none of it. He pulses with eagerness smelling out the axiomatic odours of intercourse clouding the stuffed air in the room. You fall back upon the bed and watch her. She wants it too and more.
You know. She doesn’t.
Sex is a strange act. A falsely hyped event that is nothing more than the fictitious convergence of two limbs.
They squeeze each against the other in an actually senseless up and down motion for the phallus against the ablution utility opening of the female body until something gives and liquids come out.
Somehow the body undergoes a five second spell of quivering and shell shocked trembling in the grip of a sensation that disappears as soon as it started.
By the time you manage to latch onto the core of the feeling so as to revel in them, they are already gone and you are already feeling nauseous watching the thick and sticky mucus that is your progeny in liquid form.
That knowledge however fails to stop you. She sidles up to you and soon you are in the thick of things. No they are not the thick of things. You are in the thick bush of her armpits scrounging for whatever it is your primal sub-conscious self wants.
The whole episode is a grovelling rush to expunge the sensations engorging you and heating her insides.
After some minutes everything is released and you expire beside each other watching the roof and wondering if this was worth the effort.
The engorged member now lies on the cold thigh, flaccid and empty. The sensations are gone and now you can decipher the different smells in the room. The smell of boiled eggs, one prepared to be eaten but left untouched in the plate on the table.
The smell of heat.
Yes, heat has a smell too and you know it when you smell it that this is heat smelling. Otherwise it’s an undefinable sensation. Undefinable as the sex sensation.
You now don’t know what to talk about as your body engines return to normal and a corner of your soul is already regretting the whole sticky affair.
The mind, in unison with the opposite resting of the previously feverish body, is itself racing around trying to think over if some trickles of the sperms didn’t drop inside and squirm their way to
fertilization.
The fear shall stay with you until the day she tells you that she is suffering stomach pains and when she finally says they are period pains, you silently allow your heart to leap with joy.
The egg was missed.
After you have massaged each other with enough talk as a transition train away from the primal instincts of sex, you dress up and tiptoe out of the house. She opens the gate whilst you hide in the shadows and are out as soon as it creaks open.
By the time you get home none of your body parts registers anything related to sex.
There is no residue erotic sensation still fizzing under your fingernails. Your head is as clear as the sound of night. Arriving home you flop upon the bed and all that you have as the after – taste of the intercourse is a huge all-encompassing feeling of nothing.
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