Monday breakfast. You’re seated at the dinner table. The cook, a lady in her late 40s, just served you scrambled eggs and two mangoes. Her back is turned and she’s arranging cups on the tray. You gaze at her backside and swallow. There’s a stir in your groin. Of late, you’ve been attracted to older women. Women the porn scholars call MILFs. They’re simply irresistible, and at some age, they’re an object of your lustful mind.
Your friend, a 26 year-old ambitious father of two, has been sneaking in a mama to your apartment during the weekends. He is excited. He bores you with details of their sexual gymnastics. Grimy nonsense like how her pussy farts when he finger-blasts her on the couch and she makes him lap on his soiled fingers like a dog. There is a strange odor in your bathroom that you have to deal with when she leaves. He flashes M-PESA texts of cash she sent him this morning. He could start a business with the cash, he says. He keeps saying she has a friend, a widow in her early 50s with an ass to die for. How about your wife. You ask him. She won’t find out. So you ask him more about the woman. It is a tantalizing idea.
By and by, you begin purchasing cougar porn DVDs. You hit PornHub once in a while. You click on a 9min MP4 clip of a skinny white boy wriggling behind gigantic bums of a black mama in horn-rimmed glasses. That image haunts your mind all week. It gives you lazy hard-ons at work. You begin observing the mama serving you food at the workplace like a Zika viral specimen on a slide. She reminds you of an adventure. Her akorino scarf looks like a halo. She is in those long, plaited frocks that cover the ankles. You wonder what anything else above the ankles might look like.
You are dazed. You just discovered a new drug: lust. It has no boundaries. It’s in the way she carries herself. It’s in the way these mamas treat you with respect. To their eyes, you’re their son. To you, this is a journey to un-tasted wine that has matured with time.
It’s in the thickness of their upper legs that gives you a mental image of years spent cushioning men in their warmth. It’s in the years spent nursing boys like you on her lap. It’s in the way their buttocks speak of maturity, comfort and abundance. It could be you never spent enough time with your mom as a kid. It could be you’re secretly attracted to your mom or your aunt or your primary school headmistress. It could be you don’t like your dad and how he commands everyone in the house. It could be your misogynistic self wants to watch an older woman writhe in bed – like rape, like an old worm – to gratify your ego. It could be that after all this anger and feminist talk, a woman has to submit – to lie down, part her legs, and carry your weight, your man troubles, your power and for once shut her mouth and listen to the torture of your manhood. It could be recompense to those college stories of rich cougars that got your boys driving big wheels at 21 while you were busy fucking Nicki Minaj-wannabes in rusty hostels that left you broke.
But the problem here is, the lady serving you coffee is the mom to Alima – the hot workmate you have a crush on.
But your hot crush has no ass. Just a pretty face, slender fingers and dark gums that give her teeth that bewitching allure. And here ‘hot’ applies loosely because other females are jealous of her looks; which are 60% make-up. But her mom is something else. One of those nasty jokes of fate where the mom is hotter than the daughter.
Breakfast. A half tablespoonful of coffee, 3 sugars and you pour hot water. Mix. Dig a knife and fork into the eggs. You finish the eggs first. You can’t stand coffee but it’s one of those morning rituals. Your thoughts are on the woman doing rounds in the dining room, the kitchen and back. You bookmarked one of those The New Yorker fiction blogs and you read as you sip the coffee.
You take a knife; chop the mangoes into sizeable slices. They look like giant clits. You first suck on the succulent slushy seed (a habit you developed as a kid) and toss it into the trash can at the far end of the room. Good aim. You pick the mango slices a piece at a time. You love the squashing of the mango skin in your teeth. The yellow juice drips to the corners of your mouth like thick cum. It’s a great fruit. The New Yorker guy has a knack for a good paragraph. No clichés. You scroll through. You want to write like him after you’re done reading then e-mail it to these fiction writing awards. Your eyes sweep across the mama’s ass to the view outside the window.
A drying up twig projects stoically from the trunk of an oak tree. It’s a dry season. Mother Earth on a dry spell. Clichés like “dry spell” “rebound” “one night stand” “masturbation” “chips funga” “friends with benefits” “team mafisi” “quickie” and “hand job” give sex a bad name. You reflect. It sounds so casual. Like sex is a sneeze or a loud fart. Like an itch on your scrotum. Like sex is a bribe to the traffic police or something you do when you’re bored. It sounds like petty crime; like pickpocketing an old lady at a funeral. You were raised believing sex is god’s kiss on the genitals. OK, you’re now exaggerating. Your left brain objects. People do this all the time. Your parents probably did it and gave birth to you. How frivolous is human existence. The whole creation process is a cosmic joke. A random act. You drift off.
Your thoughts shift back to the woman now walking out. Mama Alima. You devise a plan. You’re not going to seduce her and fuck her. You will seduce and fuck the girl. Or both. But the girl first. While hitting it from the back, you’re going to close your eyes, grab her bony ass tightly, dig nails into her tiny ass, and imagine it’s her mom’s jiggling meaty pillows and then explode inside your hand like a wet dream.