I Just Fell in Love

It is very hard to admit that most of the things in this book may be true; that most of the conversations were actually uttered, and that most of the deeds were done. It is very hard to admit that even a Christian can be imperfect; that I am imperfect; and that I am hardly proud of what became of me.

“Women—we can’t live with them; we can’t live without them,” so said a friend of mine who reckons himself something of a thinker; but this story is not about my friend, nor his wise words.
“Living with a woman is like digging your own grave,” so a veteran in the business of marriage told me once upon a time; but this story is not about the veteran, nor his pessimistic sentiments. Rather, this story is about my struggles to find my ‘true’ love; my better half; my missing rib; to put it more aptly—a cuddle buddy. Yes, that girl with sexy hypnotizing eyes; big, juicy lips; full, big breasts; well-rounded hips and full buttocks. Ahem, never mind my propensity to indulge in physical descriptions, but they are the ones you and I, without a shadow of a doubt, are more interested in. But she would have to have a good heart too—kind, benevolent and what not. Additionally, she would have to be gregarious, crazy, and curious (I do not believe I need to elaborate what I mean by this; it is intrinsic in ‘real’ men to understand without extensive elaboration, or any elaboration at all).
You are probably wondering why I sound like an optimistic, notion-filled romantic. Wonder no more; I actually am. As I have said; this is a story of my struggle to find a true love. I have not found her yet; but I will do it. I have only 14 days—no more, no less. By the end of these fourteen days, I should be hugging and kissing my ‘true’ love. I do not know how I will do it; but it has to be done. I have had enough of flings and crushes and the like. It is time for the real thing.

If you assume that I have not done any work yet, you are downright wrong. I have carried out a preliminary investigation and I know it can be done and will be done. There are five girls—Nora, Grace, Ireen, Harriet and Veronica. One of these, at the end of these fourteen days, will be in my arms. I just do not know which, and neither do they. None of them really know what I am at. The less they know, the better; because the success of this plan entirely depends on them being oblivious of my strategies.

July 4th: In which Frank gets his first kiss.

“Ménage-a-trios,” I say with a conceited little smile. “You know what I means?”
“No, I do not,” she says with an innocent, guileless expression on her face; and I know she is being honest. “Tell me what it means.”
“Never mind.” I quickly say, clearing my throat.
“What you mean ‘never mind?’” she is irritated, her brows coming closer together and her eyes narrowing.
“It’s not necessary that you know what it means.”
“Pshaw! Umanichima nthawi zina!” Her voice hardens and I sense a build up of anger. It is always easy to tell what emotional state she is in—she is an open book (sometimes with plenty doggie ears). I grin broadly. It does not bother me an ounce that she is clearly exasperated. I am quite accustomed to her explosive nature. In fact, odd as it may sound, her garrulous and rather unstable personality is what enamours me.
“Nimakuchima?”
“A lot!” She barks, her little eyes shinning behind her dark lenses, definitely miffed. I find this revelation odd, partly because I have never heard it from any other person before, and mostly because I know it is not intrinsic in me to actually annoy people.
“Hmm,” I snicker, “Nora, my dear Nora.” I make a tentative move towards her, my eyes fixed on her thick lips, the one thing I find quite attractive at this juncture, aside from her cutely shaped nose and her big hips and buttocks.
“You are just like Morris sometimes.”
I feel my feet draw to a sudden halt, and I eyeball her a bit helplessly. ‘So much for killing the mood,’ I say, but the words are not any louder than the thoughts in my head.
“Morris,” I breathe, turning away and slumping on the bed, quite dejectedly. “Am I seriously like him?”
“Yeah,” she smiles dreamily, moving away from the window and flopping down on the other bed, clasping her hands together as if about to utter a prayer for her sweet mojo.
“I see,” I say contemplatively, wriggling my fingers together as I am wont when hardly amused.
“The only difference is that he is bigger than you.”
“I believe he is,” I am probably now sounding as though my lungs are deflated balloons. I feel like screaming in her face: “Thou shall not compare me to MORRIS!!!” but of course, only in my dreams would I be brave enough to utter such words. I listen in nearly solemn silence for about three hundred seconds as she goes on and on about Morris and about how such a dear he is. I wonder, ‘Does she not see that I am as much of a dear as this Morris fellow—in fact much better than he is? Does this Morris fellow e’en exist? How can she not see the love before her? She sucks.’
“I remember this time he came. We had so much fun. We walked all over Kitwe—literally; with me jumping onto his back and riding him like a horse whenever I got the chance.”
“I see.” I’m now hoping she can see the very miserable expression on my face. I am trying so hard to make it evident, drooping and resting my cheeks against my palms.
“Oh, he’s such a cutie. He can carry me you know, for at least two minutes.”
“I can lift an’ carry you too,” I admit offhandedly.
“Ha!” She rolls her eyes and pouts in a contemptuous but attractive manner. She is obviously gauging my small stature and puny-looking arms and thinking—I can clearly see it—“In your wildest dreams my browdah!”
“I seriously can.”
“I very much doubt that.” She is now giggling obtrusively.
“Allow me to try.”
“You are going to drop me down straight,” she is reeling now, but I can see that the far-fetched prospect of being in my arms slightly excites her and I know that with a little bit more prodding, it can be done.
“I would never drop you,” I reassure her, unconsciously licking at my lips.
“Okay, let’s do this,” she jumps to her feet excitedly, a large grin across her face. She takes off her lenses and places them on the bed. I would have to remember to remind her about this as she often forgets them. I rise to my feet, my heart thudding heavily and I really do not know why because I am terribly certain I can do it—lift her I mean. She is dressed in a cute green jersey with white little sleeves and a collar that creates the impression that she is wearing a shirt underneath, but I know she is not for I did get a glimpse of her bare brown belly during her wild gesticulations (it is impossible for Nora to talk without gesticulating). Her skirt is moderately long with a little slit behind, which skirt serves the effective purpose of emphasizing her comely body shape. I squat and curl one arm around her fleshy legs  and the other behind her back, but before I can rise, she stops me.
“Wait! Wait just a moment!” She is gasping with excitement. “I need to time you.”
“Okay,” I shrug and hand her my wrist watch.
“Okay, let’s do this.”
I return to my squatting position, put my arms in the right places and lift her with effortless ease. She lets out a shriek of excitement, an awed expression on her face.
“Wow… you actually can lift me. Let me time you!” She fights to hold on to the watch in her hand as she counts the seconds. My, I must admit, she is rather heavy. I can feel my muscles aching.
“Okay. Twenty-two, twenty-three… put me down! I know now that you can lift me.”
I acquiesce, but I would sooner not put her down to show her that I am as much of a man as this Morris fellow, perhaps even more so, despite my smaller stature. As I gently lower her feet to the floor, my hands slip through her slit and I feel the back of her fleshy thighs. For a moment, I forget to breathe and my heart throbs madly. She is now on her feet and panting, as if she was the one doing the lifting; but I reckon being lifted by someone you assume too weak for the job is nearly as physically demanding as doing the actual lifting. She flings herself onto my roomie’s bed and wallows thereupon, pulling at the coverings, with me wishing I was the one she was pulling at.