WRITTEN BY NZEH U.S
Jane, a lovely young girl was the face of Mustapha Street, a place where I was born and raised.
As a teen, she was a rare damsel and her height was in accordance with her unique development. Her beauty established her dominance; she was the very definition of gorgeous.
Her walking steps, counted. Her swinging hands, calculated. Her swaying hips, directed. Her protruding breasts, sorted. Her flat tummy, adopted.
Whenever Jane walked, she sure knew how to get even the married men standing still, and the young single men jaw-dropped. Her presence tore through the males’ self-control at will.
She walked like a model on the runway demonstrating clothing and accessories during a fashion show. But in reality, she auctioned her beauty and that irresistible body of hers, to eager bidders.
Her body was rare; that type a court judge might disagree to be a child if abused. She possessed the body of a lady as a teen.
When Jane was eighteen, she gained admission into a university to study theatre art—a lead that helped polish her sex appeal. Jane became a dancer.
I know all these because I am her younger brother’s best friend.
I and Johnny practically grew up together.
Their father owned the house after my Dad’s, making it easy for us to exchange toys and reciprocate warm welcomes.
Before now, I had always seen Jane as my elder sister but all that changed after my thirteenth birthday. For some reason, I started wanting to see more of Jane’s mirror-front dance practices.
I was beginning to like the way she walked—it was strange, I knew something had gotten hold of me because it was crystal clear it wasn’t of my own accord.
My Sunday school teacher on a particular Sunday talked extensively about the word ‘puberty’, and I knew most of the symptoms he mentioned were what I was experiencing.
The symptoms made me sick, not literally though. I researched, and the results all pointed accusing fingers on ‘hormones’.
I was now a slave—slave to hormones—slave to puberty. Would I ever have a chance or strength to fight my way through to freedom as their captive? Would I be a victor at the end or fall prey like the youths and married men in my street? Why would things change all of a sudden?
Why should my void be devoid of emptiness? I wanted to know.
I had lots of questions with no one to ask. I was confused. I’d started giving attention to things I thought never mattered or counted.
Curiosity and inquisitiveness set in. I was even more scared because curiosity has the ability to call into question the ignorance of a person.
My parents couldn’t help me here, this wasn’t a toy request. Even if it was, they were too busy making money to pay my tuition so I could have a great life ahead—exactly what my parents and Johnny’s had in common. If my world was torn apart as a teen, how would I have their expected future in adulthood?
Amongst all urges and new desires, I wanted to kiss. I now knew the existing colours of lips and their possible shapes.
What baffled me most was, my selfish desire didn’t want a girl of my age. No, to the contrary; it wanted Jane. She was five years older, but my urges didn’t care, since the soap opera where I saw most of the kissing never said who was older between the kissers—all they did was, kiss.
Whatever I did at home or in school, I saw Jane. My imaginations got the better part of me. A little voice flowed through my mind saying, “You’re not Jane’s type.”
The thought felt distant at first as if somebody had whispered it into my ears, which I always disagreed with the counter statement, “I am Jane’s type.”
I so often uttered these words to myself they’d become somewhat of a mantra.
On a particular Saturday, I went over to Johnny’s and when I got there, he was sent on an errand, so I decided to wait. Jane was home alone. She jumped here and there in her very tight dancing outfit, in the sitting room, in front of the mirror as she practised the trending dance step.
I gladly took the couch behind where she practised, which gifted me an occasional view. My eyes followed every direction her sexual parts swayed to. It was like getting a personal dance, but she never came close to me, which I wished she did. The view was amazing.
Jane noticed my stares with her corner eye and asked, “Am I a good dancer?”
“Yes!, you really are,” I affirmed, I couldn’t agree more.
I wanted to utter another sentence to follow the already started conversation, but my mouth betrayed me. My tongue failed me—all my senses had aligned, forging a single weapon in my eyes. I stared. She made a face, smiled, and continued her practise.
Then, when she was all sweaty, I went to the fridge and brought her a very cold Lucozade Sports drink, in the blink of an eye.
As she raised the drink, I knew it was my shot to kiss Jane, so I watched. I gazed in the wonder of her beautiful face.
I saw the bottle and her pink lips in coherence. A connection that mimicked those seen on Television adverts. I observed as she gulped the cold drink and how it flowed through her throat—it was great.
Drinking the boost meant practise was over. She handed me the remaining drink, took her towels and left for a shower.
Finally, the opportunity had presented itself. I sniffed the bottle’s screw-top, enjoying the fragrance from her lips—I was obsessed. I gently placed the bottle on my lips and I travelled far into my world of invention.
Each gulp meant a new kissing with Jane in a different location and time. I kissed Jane till the last drop.
Look on the bright side, I know one day I would literally kiss Jane, or maybe it’s just a teenage boy’s fantasy, but for now, her lips on the bottle is all I’ll get, which isn’t bad though, for my age.
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