Dear Diary…I am not virgin…not anymore…lost it 8 years
ago…are you shocked?...can’t remember the date I did it…nor do I remember the
colour of me pants (not even sure if I was wearing any before that…stop your
filthy mind…I did…I was pantmore or pantplus…or anything you can call a person
who is not pantless!)…can remember the room though…with double beds (in case
one failed in the process)…Sony surround system was in full blast (lest the neighbours hear my screaming…)…but
damn…it was hot…it was afternoon (you live in the tropics…so figure it out)…did
I feel knackered at the end…can’t remember…do I have to remember all the gory
details like did I drink Pepsi or porridge or toast Champagne after the act?
Will I be classified as socially ineptitude…relationship wise…if I don’t? ....
no am not plastered (that is “half-seas-over” for you)…true…am not…and am not
lying either…truth? Everybody lies…how much each one of us lies? …does it
matter? Really?...
Where were we?...ohhh, the virginity thing…oh my…losing it
mattered in those days…nowadays….I wish -18s would be throwing as much tantrum
when they lose their virginity as when they displace their igadgets! I’ll get
home (assuming, coincidentally, that am in sync with the clock that drives the
chance events…and that by chance am not sloshed that day…which would mean
sleeping on my door step!)to find my kid smashing my (assuming my “single
parent” status weathers the storm) smashable stuff on the ground…weeping …“Dad
I’ve lost my virginity”…shocked, angered, astonished, appalled, horrified… I’ll
go like “who the bastard that did it”?... and if she goes “Joe”…and if that
particular Joe (his father …. and his extended family being included) happens
to be emasculated… then they are in for it … they will get fisted (that is
being beaten by fists, right?)…smacked (that is being slapped in the
face…right?) or just be in the receiving end of me belligerent self…
Now say…the answer is not “Joe”… but… “Annie”…Annie being a
50 yrs old housemaid who is as harmless as a drunken cat ( get yours drunk to
see the effect) and sings “Malaika nakupenda” all the time (even when in
toilet)… “Annie”…and I go “Annie what”?... “I was playing with Annie’s Dildo”…
What will I do? Cry? Smash it?... Fire Annie (what if she did not show it to
her and had locked it away safely… but me daughter, as wanting as all teenagers
can be, tried to steal some dough to fund some party (I’d always say no to)
ending up discovering the penetrating thing?... what will I do? Blame
globalization for bringing western civilizations into our homestead?... what
will I do? Head back to the pub to drink my sorrows away (and if luck has it,
bury me face in the warm bosom of
Belinda-the-waiter-who-beats-her-boyfriends-and-always-say-am-cute)?
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