The IT Guy
Last night, I had another episode of sex with my husband, not the greatest sex but still sex; it was tasteless, half a journey kind of quickie, the type that I have endured during the ten years of our otherwise perfect marriage according to the press and the public.
Bad sex still leads to pregnancy but does not lead to children with box-heads or kids with three legs. I have two sweet kids. Jack is three years old and Grace is five. My family is happy, everybody is happy. But am starved of good sex - to death.
Before my marriage, in my little mama’s kitchen, while cooking cassava and sewing the hem of her tank dress, she’d told me that what had cemented her marriage was being a good woman. A good woman does not grumble, does not tell her man what to do on bed. A woman who says what she wants on bed is a prostitute.
That’s why I have shackled my feelings toward our IT consultant’s massive chest and biceps and his legs when he wears his khaki shorts on weekends. I have avoided eye contact when he comes to my office to fix my PC; when he reaches for the mouse over my shoulder to show me how-to. I avoid his massive arm, which in my fantasy world, kills me. When I read Men’s Health, yes I do once in a while, I keep thinking of our IT guy. short white dresses
I once asked him if he reads Men’s Health and he said every serious man does. I am almost certain he meant ‘every serious man on bed’. My husband reads ‘Parents’ all the time, a magazine full of pregnant women and, well, sorry, depressing stories of how ‘we struggled through miscarriage’.
It’s a warm morning today, my husband is in Harare and its a holiday here at home. The office would be empty. Yesterday, I had lied to our IT guy, and he’s coming to my office to fix a non-existing problem. I just want to fantasise over his biceps and arms. I hope he comes in his khaki shorts and his fitting white golf shirt.
I must appear young and throw him a curveball and show him am still in the butterflies age: yesterday I’d scrapped off my braids and left my hair natural and kinky. To match his khaki short, am having my edgy leather shorts too. I hope they make my legs miles long. He’d posted on FB that he likes long legs.
It’s 12PM. That’s the sound of his Honda bike and here is the WhatsApp message from my hubby - ‘hello hun! - and I am sweating…
Flash Fiction by Oduor Jagero