Tuesday, November 9, 2010

A gigolo’s memo from the grave

(I decided to post a short story to test my posting skills,it appears they are as good as the story...enjoy it and remember i know no copyrights)

I stood their perplexed and astounded with shameful and deplorable realization. All my life I had been under the illusion that I was a star but I then understood that I was just a dumb and stupid dead man walking.
It all began with a movie I had seen at a cinema; in it a man slept around with many women and never got caught. From then on, I thought I could be the real life replica of that movie Casanova.

I was not a notorious philanderer; I was the mystery man of sex scandal. I stalked housewives and did them in by just giving them attention. It gave me more money than my job.

One thing I did not do was try my antics in my neighbourhood that, I knew, would bring my end faster so I resisted and resented it. My neighbours thought I was just a quiet publicity secretary for one of the companies in town.
Neighbours fancied me and wondered why I was still single despite my able financial muscle and my looks, “he must be shy,” they thought.

One day as I walked home from work staggering under the weight of shopping bags, an angelic lady came towards me and offered assist me.
The lady, I learned, was a new acquisition of our neighbourhood and as I later learned, she was my neighbour! She was so beautiful, too beautiful not to be noticed and acquired. I had vowed never to mess around in the neighbourhood but her, I was ready to marry!

Her husband was a respectable pastor of one of the protestant churches; he was away most of the day and that was a clearing for me. I would venture in and play my game.

I went to knock on her door the next day under the pretext of getting some live charcoal for my fire and the next thing my charm did caused an orgy of events. The last thing that happened was the pastor’s wife being convinced to cheat on her husband.

All I wanted from women was sex but she never let me. I was not a stranger to such dilly dallying women they just wanted to play hard to get.
Drugging her was the only way into her, so I called my friend Chalice, a chemist who has on many occasions bailed me of such stalemates.

I visited her the next day equipped with packed meals. In less than an hour, the lady was drugged enough to be done upon, so I launched my offensive.
Meanwhile the vestry meeting ends ahead of schedule, guests leave and the office environment gets on the pastor’s nerves, he then jumps into his car and heads for home, to his loving wife.

I had just begun doing what my ego prescribes for me; nothing in the world was sweeter that what I was eating.
The door to the bedroom door flew open the pastor stood at the door with raised eyebrows. I waited for war but none came.

“What in the name of the Lord is this, young man? You killed my wife and you are having sex with her corpse?” The pastor calmly asked.

All the sweetness left me, this was the first time I was caught red handed and I had never rehearsed a way of dealing with such a scene, and then the homicide accusations, the pastor thought I had strangled his wife?

“I didn’t kill her, she is drunk, I err...err … drugged her, its all my fault, sir,” I was begging.

“Joseph, Mary and Jesus!” the pastor cried. “Young man, it really is your fault, are you using a condom?”

I said no and begged for mercy.

“My wife and I are living with HIV, seven years now; we started this church to fund us in times of sickness and to try to placate God. We moved to this neighbourhood to run away from the stigma and scorn that the people in our village poured on us.”

My heart boiled in oil and I felt so weak, why did I not use a condom like I always do? Why did I get carried away by looks? I was really a goner.
The sight of me weighing 14 kilograms and glued to a bed with Aids disturbed me, would I die in a year or two or sooner? I was scared and ashamed of what was to come.
Like Archimedes, I ran naked towards my house, locked the door grabbed the rope I once used to drag in a goat one Christmas.

I put a chair on a table, fastened the rope to the chandelier and prepared to hang myself; I had always told myself that hanging was a better way to exit the world than a long draining illness.
Bang, went the door. It was the pastor, he had sensed some panic in my eyes and he came to check on me.

“Youngman, I was lying, I meant to scare you a little, she is as clean as holy water, come out of the house, I have forgiven you,” He said peeping through the window, “don’t be stupid, if you are this afraid of HIV you wouldn’t have done it without a condom.”

I heard him well, and I was about to free my head from the noose when, because of the champagne, I slipped knocking off the chair creating a meter gap between the table and my feet.

I gasped for air, tried to call for help but I had locked the door, I wriggled and tried to free myself but the noose held like an octopus. I heard some choral music and everything went black.

The pastor shook his head, he wished he had never scared me, he however thought it was all God’s plan. Was it?

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