The day is still young. It’s already hot. I can feel sweat populating my face. The sun is out in full. The sky is blue. I find myself standing there. With my mouth open. Wide. I want to move but I cannot. A VX drives past, and I can feel the occupants staring suspiciously at me. I don’t think I mind. Am stuck here. My legs won’t move. I won’t stop making some roaring sound. I think am in the zone. It’s a quiet area. One of those rich neighborhoods. I still can’t recall how I got here. But I love it. I think I might look like a thief or worse still, a stalker. I just stand there and stare some more. Rather lust some more. She is the most beautiful thing you’ll ever see. She sits in the shade. Regal and calm. Facing away from me. Not even once glancing in my direction. Like I don’t matter. She is black. Very black. In fact, jet black. She is in nice high heels, probably 24 inches. She is clean. The gazebo above her piles upon her coolness. She is fresh too, I can tell from her body. I can imagine the purr she lets out when you push gently. I can imagine the gusto she wakes up with when you pull out. She seems like the type that probably takes her time. Let’s your savor her beauty, and feel her curves and edges. Indulge your pleasure centres. She is cultured like that.

Ever noticed that if you start daydreaming, and you belong to my specie (of wishful thinkers), you just get lost? Time freezes. And the pace of the world slows. Words become blurred and even the noise (if there is any) is shut out. But in this neighborhood, there is not a noise to be heard. Nothing but quiet. Hell, even the birds chirp in turns. Dogs here don’t bark at you – they just let out light scoffs. Like you are nothing but a nuisance. They are on leashes inside those monstrosity of gates. Houses have crazy designs. God, the designs are crazy. The kind of place that has no two houses of a similar model. Anything that can pass for a house design, I suspect, goes. As long as it doesn’t look like your neighbor’s. I think people just dream up things and architects and engineers bring them to life. The house in which she is resting, is this creative thing. With the design of the temple of Solomon (or was it David). It has four pillarettes on the roof like little watchtowers. The compound is not fenced in stone walls – there is no need to hide blessings here. A swimming pool in the shape of a mango seed lies in front of her. As if inviting me into the compound. The light breeze makes the trees dotting the compound sway gently. As if on cue. Telling me to get lost. But am stuck.

All I can imagine is how you’d look when you stroll through the parking lot of a shopping mall with her. Everyone would look at you. Admire you. And respect you. Some may judge you. But it should not matter. So long as you have her. Sexy as they come. She is the kind of lady that raises your status in life. She may also raise other parts of your existence. If she were mine, I would take my time with her. Sit her in the shade and look at her. I suspect her man doesn’t even admire her anymore. Probably rushes her, and often forgets to take her for waxing or on slow ‘walks’ around the hood. You know these expensive girls need to be maintained, and serviced and served. Maybe her man even sends the maid to take her out shopping. If she were mine, I would do no such thing. She would be the centre of my world. I would show her great love. She would not want for anything. She would drink to her fill. Her body would be polished and waxed. I would never let anyone ding that godly ass. The one that the heels accentuate. She would never be in the sun. It may hurt her. And I’d be hurt as a result.

I would gently massage her into a purr. Let her take her time. Yes, she can really move it. But why in heaven’s name would I make her hurry? If I were in a hurry, I would take someone else. I would probably move around slow enough so that men can stare at me – and mostly at her. I would catch their eyes staring at her ass, and wink at them. Offer them those mocking “Vipi Baba” in a deep and pretentious voice. I have seen a few people with ladies like her, walking into a club like they own the entire Indian Ocean. With grins that are visible from the International Space Centre. And I always wonder how such chaps land such pretty things. I have also seen quite a few chaps rushing girls like her. Or better than her. Well, I don’t think there is any lady better than her. She is the cream of them all. The apex creature. She can go as fast as you want her to. But why would you want to go fast? Unless you have a stomach upset. In which case you should leave her home anyway. You may mess up her swagger. And we don’t want that, now. Do we? Her curves beat anything you can imagine. Her dips, and ascents make her so desirable. She knows how to occupy her space. Knows how to sit in a shade, or in the open. She doesn’t mind. But please don’t let her sit in the open. Please…

All my life I have never seen any of her kind who tripped and fell, or bumped into another object. None. They are well mannered and smart. And steady. They know how to behave, in private and in public. They come from a special class. Pretty, and excellent. A cut above the rest. Know how to make men – and women – happy. Know how to satisfy their desires, and fulfill their wishes. She is the champagne of ladies. What I wouldn’t do to have her.

The BMW X6…


One thought on “Champagne

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