Written by Petty WAP
Getaway getaway getaway
Is all I wanna do
A little getaway with you…
These are the opening lyrics to ‘Mamela’. My lover is a huge Mi Casa fan and when he can’t find the words to express what he feels he’ll send me links to VEVO vids on YouTube. So cringe, I know. But this type of goofy behaviour is what keeps me intrigued. Just how deep does his emotional crutch of a playlist go? I’ve been willing to give a year of my life to find out. (I’ll come back to that later.)
I smile at my latest Telegram notification and type a reply hoping that it conveys sufficient snark.
“Am I supposed to take these lyrics at face value or is this just a karaoke session for you?”
My lover drops me a tear drop emoji. What is it with these new niggas and their inability to use words? It’s like communicating with a caveman using 2D wall art to express top secret code.
“Do you really want to get away?”
“Yes.”
“Cool.”
My lover drops me a red heart emoji.
Two weeks later we’re rolling our matching turquoise luggage into a one bedroom cottage I’ve found on Air BnB. Why matching? Because it’s the one absurdity that I have insisted on in this strange relationship. In so many words, my lover told me that we would never be a couple. (Which was fine, because I was not seeking to be coupled.) His exact words were, “Don’t fall in love, bitch. You’ll be on your own. *insert shrug emoji*”
“That’s fine with me, nigga. No one wants to be in love with your ass anyways.”
That was eleven and a half months ago.
To the outside world, the matching luggage makes us look like a couple without the actual commitment of monogamy. Plus, turquoise is a colour I dislike in general. It reminds me of florescent cave mold. I’ll discard it as soon as our situationship expires. While I’m contemplating these things, I hear the caretaker explain how water and electricity works in the unit.
“We use our own rain water on the premises. You can drink it, but it’s at your own risk. The WiFi password is here…”
My lover thanks the man and promises to message if we have any difficulty.
“There’s a tide pool to swim in just 1 km from here if you’re into outdoor swimming.” He assess me and then smiles. I’m wearing a white linen dress that flutters in the passing breeze, as if on cue. Very virginal. I suppose he likes what he sees because he smiles and parts with a “have fun!” and then disappears out of the narrow oak door.
“Finally!” my lover breathes. He immediately begins busying himself with setting up his bluetooth speaker and getting Mari ready. “Mari” is his marijuana mat, papers and lighter. I don’t smoke, something he was disappointed to discover. However that disappointment was shortlived when I informed him that I was very open to him blowing smoke into my mouth while we made out. The way he grabs my hair and tilts my neck backward as he blows sweet, pungent vapor into my waiting mouth is so damn…intimate. I can’t explain it. I feel like I’m engulfing his soul into my lungs, like a new succubus just discovering her power. I’m already smiling, waiting for the first puff. In the meantime, I check out our Spotify and let out a very unsexy snort.
“Did you really name our sex playlist ‘Rumble in the jungle: Gorilla vs Elephant’?
My lover responds with an equally unsexy giggle at a pitch far higher than his distinctive baritone. He refers to me as “his elephant” as an homage to my extremely long clitoris. My lover calls it a baby trunk. How he got his name has far more street cred. When he wrestled in university his team mates said he would rush onto the mat like a silver back. In his junior year he had a tattoo of gorilla etched into his left breast. Very pleased with himself, he giggles and pounds the grimacing ape with his fist while the playlist begins with Bruno Mars singing – you guessed it – Gorilla. I crack up.
Ooh ooh ooh yeah, you and me baby making love like gorillas
Ooh ooh ooh yeah, you and me baby making love like gorillas…
My lover glides across the room with a grace that his wrestler’s frame should not allow, singing the hook in falsetto, and holds me tenderly by the waist. And then there it is: the smoke exhaled into my waiting, gaping mouth. He holds my gaze as he blows. Heaven.
“I want us to play a game this weekend,” he whispers in my ear.
My back tenses. It’s something in his voice that is off kilter. I try not to imagine the worse, like the time when our rope ‘play’ went horribly wrong and damn near turned into a scene from Django and that this is the moment he’s been waiting for to strike for his revenge. Our bodies each bear scars from when the sex got unexpectedly rough. I run my finger along the part of his bicep that still bears the scars from the rope burn. My lover has become attuned to my body and senses my apprehension. He laughs softly.
“We aren’t going to be doing any rough play this weekend,” he assures me. “Let’s play Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes.”
“Ah ah. You mean… head, shoulders, dundundun dundundun…?” I act out the moves to the nursery school rhyme.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” he laughs. “And yes.”
I have no idea what my lover is planning, but given his inclination towards the literal, I should have anticipated what was to come next. And spoiler alert, yes I did.
The white dress that fluttered so prettily in the breeze had been pulled over my head and was now an undignified heap on the floor. My lover made quick work of his own trousers and tee shirt and threw them in the direction of the ornate front door that the caretaker had just exited mere moments before. In one of the reviews for the cottage, someone left a comment on how “lovely and soft the paisley patterned loveseat that faces the stream” is. “It is the perfect space to sit with a cup of tea – either by one’s self or with a friend – and reflect on the beauty that surrounds you.
My lover now has my legs over the arm of that loveseat (and it does indeed cradle my back), knees bent and shoulder width apart, sometimes devouring me and at other times licking my pussy with gentle intensity. His tongue explores my labia, making kissing noises that make my brain want to explode with pleasure. My knees buckle when he “accidentally” sucks on my asshole, sending shock waves through the lower half of my body. I whimper and I can feel him smiling at my furiously wet pussy. When I attempt to grab the back of his neck he firmly pushes my hand away.
“Babe…please…”
“Not yet.”
I’m begging. He’s half moaning, half growling.
It appears that he has one more task before he will grant me my release. He gently guides me onto my belly. My lover has now taken possession of my hands and pulled them towards my ankles, locking me in one of his wrestlers’ embraces. I couldn’t get free if I wanted to. (Not that I wanted to!) What would he do next? I wondered. How was going to eat my pussy from the back? What would my lover –
“OH MY GOD!!!”
My lover’s mouth has ceased its advance. His voice signals alarm. “What? What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?”
“Don’t…don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.”
My breath is ragged, my heart racing. There was nothing accidental about what his mouth was doing and where it was doing it. With one hand he kept a tight grip on my wrists and with the other he softly cupped my butt cheek, tenderly invading the starburst shaped orifice that was now treated to my lover’s special attention. I was caught in limbo, oscillating between the many ways he was handling my body: delicate, soft, firm, possessive. I became increasingly aware of him…his scent, the heft of his body; aware of us; aware of the nature that surrounded us and our own primal, animal attachment to that nature. I felt my orgasm building. My lover must have felt it too because he panicked.
“Babe…wait! Not yet!”
“I can’t hold it. I can’t!”
My lover’s hands relinquished their erstwhile grip and guided my body into a seated position, burying his face between my thighs. My oddly elongated clitoris, pulsing and glistening with arousal leapt in greeting.
“So beautiful,” he murmured. “My little elephant.”
I squirted directly into his eager mouth, grinding into his face, pounding his forehead into my belly as I rode the last moments of my climax. Fuck.
“What the fuck was that?”
“Head,” he shrugged simply. My lover scrambled to his feet. “You look worn out. You want a cup of tea? I read from the reviews that this loveseat is a great place to enjoy one.”
