we did it. we won

we won. a big step for kenya. a great leap for us; readers , subscribers and those who share. thank you;

 

Winners have emerged at the 2018 African writers awards held on December 1, 2018 at the International Conference Centre, Abuja, Nigeria. The event which paraded the finest writers in Africa was a celebration of the beauty of the girl child. The winners at the event were;

  1. Children’s Literature – Manu Herbstein  (Ghana) for ‘Roise’
  2. Flash Fiction – Maryhilda Ibe (Nigeria) for ‘Fragments.’
  3. Poetry – Chiamaka Onu-Okpara (Nigeria) for ‘A Battle Cry to be Read Loudly and Softly.’
  4. Short Stories – Benson Mugo (Kenya) for ‘Dawn.’

Special awards were also given to some writers of African descent who have contributed immensely towards the growth and development of the African literary space. Those recognised were;

  1. Sandra Oma Etubiebi (Nigeria)
  2. Wakini Kuria (Kenya)
  3. Edith Knight Adhiambo Ochieng (Kenya)
  4. Nahida Esmail (Tanzania)
  5. Halima Usman (Nigeria)
  6. Saka Dbosz Junior (Nigeria)
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appreciation

I  am so grateful to have been among the ten shortlisted for the African writers award for the short story- dawn. the story is set in Kenya about the life of a female paramedic. i will attach it soonest. below is the link to the awards and the email they sent. only two Kenyan made it to the list Ms Munira Hussein and  I under the pen name Benson Mugo.

long live writing . viva Kenya.

Short Stories

“I believe that the best short stories have the power to change minds, to rethink attitudes, and build empathy by asking the readers to walk in other’s shoes through the breathing of life and emotion into the characters. The 2018 African Writers Awards’ shortlisted stories look beneath the veil of femininity and sexuality. They challenge gender politics and bash at the rough grip societal norms have on the African girl child. Like a thousand voices coming from every nuke, dark crack and sealed door, they give voice to every African woman who has for long been buried under the rug of society.”  -Nyashadzashe Chikumbu, Zimbabwe

The shortlists are:

  1. Nana Ama Gyemaah Otuahene (Ghana) for ‘The merchandise.’
  2. Temwani Mgundu (Malawi) for ‘A Dance in the Dark.’
  3. Odimegwu Onwumere (Nigeria) for ‘My Mother’s 4th pregnancy.’
  4. Misak Workneh (Ethiopia) for ‘Anathema.’
  5. Munira Hussein (Kenya) for ‘The power of the Wind.’
  6. Philani A. Nyoni (Zimbabwe) for ‘Celestial Incest.’
  7. Aisha M. Umar (Nigeria) for ‘Binle’s Emerald. ‘
  8. Benson Mugo (Kenya) for ‘Dawn.’
  9. Mazuba Mwiinga (Zambia) for ‘Till Death.’
  10. Mema Daisy Ojukwu (Nigeria) for ‘A Woman Now.’

 

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Tall ladies

*To the tall ladies in our midst*

“Your nose tickles”
That was more of an order ,not really a tone you’d expect in such circumstances. The order, guided by a piercing stare , crumpled the little hope he nursed of having a great night. He felt emasculated beneath her, her long hands , which now appeared like tentacles, clutched him closer to her bossom which was eye level. Bathed by the blue hue of the balcony light and the breeze picking up her hair, she was a sight to behold. The sweat glistening off her skin gave her a glow equalling her to the Mythical Desdemona, the Greek princess. That is your cue to read Othello.
    For as long as his memory can recall, he loved tall ladies. Maybe it’s because his mother and sister were tall women and genes played a cruel game on him. He grew up surrounded by peacocks, tall elegant ladies all his life. After school he tried his luck with the over priced short ladies but did not understand why people over praise them. With short ones, he felt nothing. His quest for the grail was not quenched.
   You see, there is something about tall ladies,  a certain grace about them . The confidence that they bring about knowing that they look over the heads of nearly every one . The cockiness that comes from knowing that your presence is felt. The knowledge that you intimidate men by sight and knowledge of this is absolute power. Tall ladies are self reassured. They have a clear cut choice in men, they can date your crush at will, they gain all the tall men, leaving the short boys and girls to fight among themselves. they need no introductions. Their elegance is enough.
   Back to him feeling suffocated under the tall lady, he knew she liked him. She was embarrassed of being seen with him in public, she had to walk slowly to let him catch up. Closer on the streets, they looked like mother and son, she hated that association. She loved him but he did not know.
   On the other hand, he liked her, he was sure this was the woman with whom his children would appear in family photos together. He understood why she was reluctant to introduce him to her friends, she had an ego to protect. In all the selfie, they took together, she had to squat to fit in. She hated that she had to bend to kiss him and imagined the embarrassment during the wedding when he may have to use a stool when putting on her ring. He had to buy new blankets for her, when she came over.  Neighbours assumed she was his sister, they did not believe he could pull such an elegant lady considering his clumsiness.
As the wind picked up her hair and her fragrance on the balcony and she turned to him, her eyes deep and voice soft, all he could hear were the words of the priest, in his mind,

    ” Dear beloved, we are gathered here to celebrate in Holy matrimony……..”

Allow me

*Allow me*

The little heathen pleasures
The joy of carnal knowledge one last time
To enjoy your soft moans on my tender neck
To feel the warmth of your lips
To know the saltiness of your tongue on mine
Allow me
to reminisce on the soft texture of your skin on mine
The fine caresses of your fingers on my chest
The engraved image of your curves on my bathroom mirror, moaning softly
Your short dress way up upon your waist
My body filling the void amidst your thick thighs
Allow me
to feel your weight again
Against the wall, encompassed by your waist
Your bubbly Bossom bouncing on my face
The baby’s food threatening to burst out of it’s prisons
Allow me
to feel the tinkling sensation as your tongue runs my jaw line
Digging into the nerve crannies.
Allow me to listen to your groans of satisfaction once more
As we shove and grunt against the wall
Pushing against the switch
Bringing light and darkness with every thrust
Allow me the joy of seeing the engorged nips fight against the bra
Darkening and arising with every touch
Ticklish and grateful for every suck
Allow us the final dance
Of two naked and naked bodies
Joined in an unholy union against the wall
Soaking in the warmth of carnal juices
Enjoined in love and body
Celebrating the communion of lust
For the last time,before my ordination

Allow me

image

Lucid

Trudging heavily up the wet chipping stairs with a dim flickering nearly burnt out fluorescent light ,he was a former shadow of himself. His thick set body now sagging covered in a faded dirty oversize jumper. The front which is streaked with poorly wiped away food remnants most probably mango pulp or squished pawpaws, his favourites. His trousers, surprisingly clean, are sagging down weighed down by a weapon, his service issue Glock 17 pistol and a penknife still bloodied and rusty.
Along the darkened corridor, tenants clothes hang swaying to the wind smacking the wall with a ghoulish wave. He shuffles on slowly, undecidedly with small shifty eyes, paranoid as ever. Under his hood, a pimpled face is hidden under a bush of smattered beard soaked to the skin in cigarette smoke and vodka interspaced with broken toothpicks. Beneath all that a mind with an IQ of 140 hides, broken beyond rehabilitation, paranoid and irrational. In there hangs a former military doctor, the pride of our platoon.

The room is rancid, the choking smell of socks and musty beddings has acted as a insecticide, no bugs can survive his dwelling. The peeling walls look slimy and cold. The airmatress lays deflated on the corner by the curtained windows . The darkness is scary even for veteran soldiers like us, men who found solace in the night, we owned the night. After a while the eyes adjust to the lucidity as we plomp on the slimy floor next to his bags, he seemed ready to leave any moment. On one wall is his doctors bag, still fully equipped and ready, the bag that saved many a life in combat. After he quit he turned down all civilian hospital jobs. You see military doctors are a special breed, proud and efficient. While civilian doctors consider them undertrained, the military doctors think of them as sissies who can’t perform field surgery without equipment but just a pen knife and wires.
On the left wall against the clogged sink with dead cockroach floating, is a painting with flaking edges. A painting he holds dear and incessantly kisses when he is not crying at night. The last memory he has of her. On it, a short plump lady sits with her succulent thighs covered in a fitting purple dress facing the horizon. She is sensualy caresing a guitar with a naughty smile as if beckoning him to join her. The same short dress she wore when ,in her last act of defiance when she hang herself in this very room. A wift of cold air sweeps by , as if reminding us of her presence. Her troubled soul on earth. The stars mourned that night and the moon darkened in her passing. Goosebumps are visible on us all.
Looking at him now, life had played him the trump card. The guy whose philosophy was master of chaos now lived in chaos. In the chaos he belonged, he found his home amidst the hell’s burning embers .In the battle field he was an enigma, balancing his rifle and stethoscope,his name gave us hope amidst the joy of flying bullets and ordinance. After the war , his war with self started, he came home to the decomposing corpse of his lover, PTSD and anger issues. Paranoia kicked in and he still thought everyone was trying to kill him. Outwardly he looked normal until the day he started drowning neighbours kitties and puppies.
In the dark silence we slinkered deeper into the shadows, the message we had for him forgotten, he was a lost cause, wasted seed. The flicker of hope in his eyes faded, replaced by a wondering look of oblivion. The painting on the wall beckons on seductively, in her,he saw his future . In the heavens God laughed at his plans.

Crumbling pedestal

Her biggest and only asset was her ass, perched seductively on her fragile frame. The protrusive anatomical feature that made her stand out and gave her a false sense of entitlement , earned her bragging rights in the midst of her shallow minded peers who apparently have a kingdom in the virtual world of Instagram. Through her eyes, she had made it, non essential personnel on earth, like us, had zero business engaging her ever pouted lips in anything in close resemblance to a conversation. To her, the society was a nuisance and her immediate family,an accident of birth.
Albeit being a next door neighbour,she never bothered to find out what I did for a living, anyway even if I was a terrorist,she would have been safe. You see in TV news after a terrorist has been killed, it’s the neighbours who give accounts of his life” he was a quiet, handsome guy, who kept to himself, he was cute though”….
Anyway back to my gazeniliniously obnoxious neighbour, to me she was this big assed woman clearly out of my league, just as every other woman is. The only male from the apartment whom she could speak to was the caretaker, and mark you,it was never a conversation, just the poor guy being threatened when water got lost. His pleas were usually met by her name calling and invocation of big names in the corporate world.
Anyway today as I was trying to placate my sweetheart, the vitz I bought with my last of savings to try woo Cynthia, the lady who later got married to my uncle, who had sold me the car after curving Cynthia in my place more times than I had borrowed that jalopy. So as I cajoled the car to start, it was one of the days during the cold season when the car needed some warmth to start, a neighbour, whom I had helped treat her child saw me and came to ask for another favour. Typical African behaviour,help them today, and they will look for you again when they are in need.
So as she comes to my oil spattered hands she twirls her non existent hair, man she owns a big forehead which she denies in her Instagram, and quips
” Mambo daktari, …” I can’t hear the rest, behind her, my obnoxiously wide assed neighbour stares, then smiles.
So here is the deal, I’m not a doctor as such. Im just a clinical officer, a step away from a doctor, I’m mandated to run a dispensary and can conduct basic surgeries. But to Africans everyone in a lab coat is a doctor. A title I carry with honour among mere mortals but shamefully in front of doctors. But hey it’s better than the sex you are not having.
Finally, my sweetheart accepts my smooth moves and moves. As common courtesy, I pick my neighbours enroute to town , it doesn’t make sense to drive around an empty car as if im giving a lift to the seats in the jalopy. As the gods would have it, I find the assman, my neighbour at the gate and wave her in. She is extremely chatty today, considering in our two years of cohabitation she has never spoken to me, except that day when she called me a retarded fuckwit for using her hanging lines to dry my only pair of boxers. Long story. I now own a few pairs of the same colour .
Her conversation drifts from her usual clusterfuckery of who is who on IG to who wore what. Seriously its like she could not see that all my clothes are black T-shirts, blue jeans and rubber shoes plus an Arafat I use as a curtain and scarf. Then I realise the cause of her chattiness. ” BTW for real wewe ni daktari? unaeza nicheck?. Of late sijakua naskia vizuri uku chini….”
; Of course that’s an STI, effects of being eaten raw to afford that rare, IG appropriate chicken at KFC daily. Normally your fisi instincts kick in here, this is where you ask to see it and do your diagnosis, but then medical ethics kick in.
Instead of that, the pedestal I had put her on ,crumbled. It came down slowly just like my jalopy does when it runs dry of the adulterated fuel I buy at Moha’s. The image of a perfect lassy, slowly shrunk to that of a high end escort, a fancy name for a pro-stitute.

Swirl of smoke

*Swirl of smoke*

There is something intriguing about women who smoke. They exclude a kind of confidence unique to them. They own that moment, they give out the vibe, that they can do it. At that moment they are queens, duchess of the 3 minutes it takes to smoke out that cigarette.  They have this sacred halo in aura around them.
   I was chilling out in the balcony, silently hating on the crowd invited, torn up from my just recent judo game and contemplating quitting medical school after another 48 hour clinical rotation at the hospital. Normally I hate people something we shared. Nursing my now warm vodka, clouds of smoke wafted to my side turning up my already pent up anger, I was ready to unleash Armageddon on the smoker.  But here stood a slim, seemingly malnutritioned lady enshrouded in smoke with a cigarette looking too big for her ring clad fingers. She was nothing close to my ideal woman- short, plump (fat) chubby, thicc,with long hair and preferably in a dress, but then there was something sassy about her, the aura of mystery surrounding her hoarse voice which she ordered me with to allow her take a sip of whatever I was taking.  She owned her world at that moment of my stupefaction staring at her nonexistent boobs.
  Fast forward, in my dark stuffy single room with black curtains, blue high school sized stained bed sheets and crusted sink without anything resembling food minus cloves of garlic which she used to counter the smell of tobacco from her breath. PK wrappers crushed under the pillow with gas lighters mostly gifts, piled on the headboard entangled with earphones and condom packs.  Her hair, now shaggy and engorged with the smell of Dunhill cigarettes rubs painfully on my chest as she croaks about the crazy night that was yesternight.  On the floor, red lipsticks, a pocket knife and cigarette butts lay facing each other on a plate. By now I’m an addict by association; you know how nicotine patches work- a smoker sticks one on the stomach and it’s absorbed into the bloodstream without the smoker inhaling an actual cigarette. Now imagine getting a blow job from nicotine coated gums, lips and teeth, that’s how my nights were. Plus menthol laced kisses in the morning after she finished chewing her PKs with an open mouth so as not to mess her lipstick.
       Her rants in the morning were a sure way to give you migraines, she insisted on narrating to you her previous day in that hoarse tobacco laden voice, often narcissistically. In my blurry mornings, effects of not knowing where my glasses were, vodka and 48 hour shifts she appeared angelic, never mind the pain on my chest as her hair rubbed deeper into it. Countless questions;      
       “Cay, I know medically smoking is bad, but im here for a good time not a long time, so if I develop lung cancer, will you still love me the same?”
    Unable to answer such, we just stuck to listening to blues, the sad man’s songs, reminiscing , in that silence we understood each other, our hearts became at ease in such moments, beating in synch to our breathing.
   She was the kind of aunt who came to family gatherings tipsy in cargo shorts and open back tops with dark sunglasses, the black sheep of the family. Her nieces and nephews loved her, she was generous with cash and allowed them the occasional sip of her liquor. The woman who considered family as an accident of birth. She never volunteered in kitchen duty, she would rather sit it out nursing a mug of whisky and crunching another pack of cigarettes. The daughter that her mother introduced as
                                “This is the one we pray for”
  You may never hear my side of the story. The woman I loved without words. The lady who first told me that I was cute, despite the circumstances. She chose her path, a narrow path that we walked in smoke and in love. The woman who I carry in my heart everyday. She chose to love a writer and her life became our story. My story is her story. She was my reality.
That was your mother.

A part of me died that Saturday

A part of me died that Saturday. Her steps along the aisle felt like staples being stapled to my body. Here was my wife getting married. The husband to my wife idiotically smiling waiting for her . Norms wouldn’t allow me to frown, to subvert that I imagined what would happen during the honeymoon, the surprise awaiting the sorry frog faced groom, a virgin of an engineer, my co husband.
    Behind that gown, I saw the woman I knew, the one I forced myself to believe I knew. The carefree lady who called everyone brathee straight faced with the attitude of a fighter then fist bump them.many at times she was called a lesbian, a title she used to ward of guys she never liked. Her baggy shorts with multiple pockets full of roasted grounnuts, roast maize or a pocket knife. The lady with big cute eyes which fluttered anytime she was excited while clinging to your clothes in public enjoying how you are squirming in discomforture of PDA. The lady who came for sleepovers with just a tshirt and shorts knowing she will go the next day in your clothes leaving you with a new duster and a short to give to a  children’s home considering her child like physique. She was the kind of lady who would eat an avocado which has fallen from the tree with her bare hands while telling the nastiest of jokes albeit maintaining a strait face. Yuup she was an expert at climbing trees and shooting birds with catapults. The memories of swimming naked in the river are still fresh. She was comfortable wearing only a tshirt and Socks the whole day, her hair messy with her big eyes .
  The bicycle races we had in the rain splashing mud at each other knowing we were going to shower together later.We ate stolen sugarcane like boys, in gumboots tearing away at those peels and crushing the stems. she could stay in your bed all day clamped on your chest and pulling at your ears when you started complaining of her anchor weight. She was 7O kgs and short, more like a compressed gurney bag- gunia. All the while she knew I was a priest.
   You see I’m not your typical priest. The image that Woman someplace in Tututumu nyeri has of a priest is the complete opposite of me. I have shaggy unkemp hair,to hide my growing baldness, i keep a full heard. I hate people and when they speak I snort with disregard. I love arguing and when doing so I use the word fuck as an abbreviation. Im being modest in this blog, my parents read it. Im ever in earphones and and tend to ignore people’s opinions. i feel entitled and come out Brutish and force my opinions on people. I’ve been described as violent, rude and angry. I care less, im not fixed to a parish thank God for the diocesan order. I ogle and check out women. I cuss alot, I’m ever in earphones playing blues and rock. I’m a paranoid little fucker and always carries a weapon. I never came to the seminary to get salvation, I grew bad in there, surrounded by Bibles, priests and God. The devil inside me grew up under holy guidance
   Back to the wedding, as she raises her small chubby fingers for the ring, the small fingers that have countless massaged me and fixed her oily bike, the reality eventual hit home. I stammered through the vows. She, the lassie who kept me sane through the eight years of the seminary is now being taken under oath as a wife. While doing the premarital counseling I thought maybe it was a prank, that she will tell ne she was joking and she will come back to me. I know it was being selfish, me a celibate guy, married to the church, holding on to her,  a free spirit not bound by vows of chastity which I made a hobby of squashing any time I got, which was always. We had spent the last night, her pre wedding night together, the now husband had no idea. But again life must move on. I needed to find another sheep to take care of from the congregation.
  A part of me died that Saturday.

*Caymil*
_Priest to be_

Silhouette

Silhouetted against the lace curtains her figure stood out as if in protests to the pounding cracking vodka induced hangover in your head. She appears dancing, flowing .Her small feet posing at an awkward angle, one which you never believed a human was possible of cranking, her big toe tapping systemically to a tune playing on her head on the cold tiles on the floor. To you the soft taps feels like a crazy luhya gold miner sledgehammering against rocks somewhere in Shamakokho.
   She loves the feeling of coolness under her feet, only comparable to the joy of staggering drunk singing wedding songs in the dead of the night, under the rain back in the rural area where everyone still wonders why you decided to become celibate and still blame the parishes catechist for misleading you when not speculating that you shoot blank shots.
   She is in an oversized hooded jumper reaching her knees, her small hands disappearing into the sleeves only the tips of her manicured nails peeps out holding a pee-stick. The hoodie looks like a baggy skater dress on her, beneath which you are sure she wears nothing. She waves the pee-stick in your face as you try to peel your head off the pillow which now reeks of alcosweat, your blood is so saturated with vodka that your sweat has the distinct smell of distilled barley.
    From the haze, you can see only one line- negative, you are safe this time, she is not pregnant yet.
  The next thing you see is cloud of hair embracing your face and a whizz as she attacks your neck, your most sensitive anatomical extension. She is mad, she had hoped to get pregnant this time. For the past two weeks, she had tried everything in the books. You can’t fathom the amount of mukhombero,fried pumpkin seeds, groundnuts and papaya you have had to consume and later battle those painful unending erections in the confession booth listening to nun’s and estrogen swamped highschool girls confessions.
   She is angry, at herself, you, everything, gods, God, hormones everything and everyone. Her huge eyes looks sympathetically at you, even in the blurry haze you still feel empathetic to her.
   “Caaaaaymil, why can’t we make another you?”
  ” Cay, does God hate me, for fornicating with a priest?”
Damn she is too blunt, I like to consider it doing my duty to humanity not really fornicating.  She only wanted to provide a heir to my name, a simple service.
   Whatever I say next will determine if I get to enjoy morning glory or otherwise, she is now straddling me, my head still too heavy, vision blurry and hazy, skin covered in a sheet of alcosweat,pungent to the heavens. I feel the warmth and moistness of her womanhood as she settles on my waist, her bunny teeth exposed awaiting my response. I really can’t help but stare at her dimples, with the occasional wild hair swishing over those huge eyes and small button nose. She is too cute, too beautiful to have fallen to the rogue diocesan priest that is supposed to answer a question he has already forgotten, the priest laying on his back staring back at her.
    Deeply inside Im relived she is not pregnant, in as much as she needs a kid, I don’t want to give her one. It all boils down to psychology and power games, if she gets pregnant, she will leave me and get settled, something I can’t afford considering my social life is not something worth writing about unless it’s on my eulogy.
    As she rocks on the six pack that is my abdomen, all I remember is yesternight waltzing intimately, moving sensually to the slow moving music, feeling one with the soothing beats. The world seemed to stop,to give us time to absorb the gift of sensuality and life in each others lips…….

*Caymil*
_Priest to be_

Silhouette

Silhouetted against the lace curtains her figure stood out as if in protests to the pounding cracking vodka induced hangover in your head. She appears dancing, flowing .Her small feet posing at an awkward angle, one which you never believed a human was possible of cranking, her big toe tapping systemically to a tune playing on her head on the cold tiles on the floor. To you the soft taps feels like a crazy luhya gold miner sledgehammering against rocks somewhere in Shamakokho.
   She loves the feeling of coolness under her feet, only comparable to the joy of staggering drunk singing wedding songs in the dead of the night, under the rain back in the rural area where everyone still wonders why you decided to become celibate and still blame the parishes catechist for misleading you when not speculating that you shoot blank shots.
   She is in an oversized hooded jumper reaching her knees, her small hands disappearing into the sleeves only the tips of her manicured nails peeps out holding a pee-stick. The hoodie looks like a baggy skater dress on her, beneath which you are sure she wears nothing. She waves the pee-stick in your face as you try to peel your head off the pillow which now reeks of alcosweat, your blood is so saturated with vodka that your sweat has the distinct smell of distilled barley.
    From the haze, you can see only one line- negative, you are safe this time, she is not pregnant yet.
  The next thing you see is cloud of hair embracing your face and a whizz as she attacks your neck, your most sensitive anatomical extension. She is mad, she had hoped to get pregnant this time. For the past two weeks, she had tried everything in the books. You can’t fathom the amount of mukhombero,fried pumpkin seeds, groundnuts and papaya you have had to consume and later battle those painful unending erections in the confession booth listening to nun’s and estrogen swamped highschool girls confessions.
   She is angry, at herself, you, everything, gods, God, hormones everything and everyone. Her huge eyes looks sympathetically at you, even in the blurry haze you still feel empathetic to her.
   “Caaaaaymil, why can’t we make another you?”
  ” Cay, does God hate me, for fornicating with a priest?”
Damn she is too blunt, I like to consider it doing my duty to humanity not really fornicating.  She only wanted to provide a heir to my name, a simple service.
   Whatever I say next will determine if I get to enjoy morning glory or otherwise, she is now straddling me, my head still too heavy, vision blurry and hazy, skin covered in a sheet of alcosweat,pungent to the heavens. I feel the warmth and moistness of her womanhood as she settles on my waist, her bunny teeth exposed awaiting my response. I really can’t help but stare at her dimples, with the occasional wild hair swishing over those huge eyes and small button nose. She is too cute, too beautiful to have fallen to the rogue diocesan priest that is supposed to answer a question he has already forgotten, the priest laying on his back staring back at her.
    Deeply inside Im relived she is not pregnant, in as much as she needs a kid, I don’t want to give her one. It all boils down to psychology and power games, if she gets pregnant, she will leave me and get settled, something I can’t afford considering my social life is not something worth writing about unless it’s on my eulogy.
    As she rocks on the six pack that is my abdomen, all I remember is yesternight waltzing intimately, moving sensually to the slow moving music, feeling one with the soothing beats. The world seemed to stop,to give us time to absorb the gift of sensuality and life in each others lips…….

*Caymil*
_Priest to be_