Hurry Back Home Lover

It’s been a very arduous day at work.

The time is 4:30 pm.

You’re about to round up; and just as you’re finishing with the file in front of you, your WhatsApp notification beeps.

It’s a message from your woman — images.

You take a deep breath and tap on your phone to unlock it, and as you do your eye widens, your mouth goes dry, and you swallow hard.

Staring back at you is the oiled butt of your woman in G-string lingerie, squatting and absent of face.

And with it a caption:

“Hurry back home lover, this meat wouldn’t ride itself.”

You smile and chuckle to yourself; this woman would be the end of you; this is one of the vain reasons you had settled for her, and this vanity has its side attractions and positives — for you’ve been together for more than seven years, and not once have you looked at another woman with lust brewing in your heart or infidelity beckoning to you.

You’ve been faithful and needfully so, and that’s because your woman adroitly whets your appetite and feeds all of your sexual palettes to satiation.

You shut your laptop, and as you do, you realize you have a growing and evident bulge.

The beautiful thing about all of this isn’t that you’re running to meet a random woman, the beautiful thing about this is that you’re running home to lay with your woman, to make love to her like she’s a price, and to fuck her like she’s a whore, your whore.

Your run out of the office like a man under a spell.

You forget to key out, and just when you’re by the gate to exit, you remember and rush back in to do that.

You don’t have a car, so you’re certainly going to take public transport.

You enter a bus and it is only when you’re settled in and seated that you remember you have about an hour's drive back home, coupled with Lagos traffic.

Your thought and imagination wander, and as it does, you remember once when your woman had also sent you a photo of her areola glistening with coconut oil and right there on the bus, your bulge again begins to rise.

You instantly carry your suitcase in your lap to shield it from suspecting view, and at the same time notice that you’ve begun to sweat mildly.

You’re still there, in a whirlpool of sexual craze and frenzy when your WhatsApp notification beeps again, and your screen comes alive.

It’s a message:

“Where are you, babe? The AC is on, I am cold, dripping and waiting.”

And with it a smiling emoji.

You smirk, one of unease and snarky excitement.

You begin to imagine and envision, the last time you both ‘banged’, your woman had doused you with alcohol and used you like you were a thief.

She had ridden and grinded and teased and sucked every muscle and every nerve ending in your body and at a point, you thought you were going to pass out.

This woman had fed you with rich sexual calories — just how you like to be fucked, like a pornstar — but one rich enough to make you lose weight.

And after you both climaxed, you had fallen asleep right away until 5 am the next morning.

You’re still lost in your thought when the conductor shouts.

“Alabama waa!!!”

Eish.

Alabama is three bus stops after yours.

Mehn, you scramble off the bus and because at that point your head is no longer correct, you begin to run back home.

It was just sheer luck, for you nearly got hit by an Okada man with a young Hausa ‘Superman’ as its rider.

You just swerve amidst his cussing and keep running without looking back.

All for what?

For fuck wey dey sweet die, especially with the right person.

Sex is beautiful; take it from me.

©️ Noel Ijezie