By Kathryn Yule Mweupe Kazibwe:
The most cliché sayings are also always the truest. Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it.
On the Saturday that Jacob invited me to his house for dinner, I had been waiting for his call. I obviously agreed. I tried to convince myself that it was just dinner, but I knew how this would end, even before it began. I told myself it was right. We were in love. I carried condoms.
His house was nice and warm, very man-like. The living room was crowded with shoes, clothes, books, and all kinds of other things. The bedroom, however, was pretty much empty, if you didn't look at the huge bed placed eccentrically in the middle of the room. While we sat smoking on his bed, I reading his poetry, Jacob asked me if I was a virgin. I said no, and he laughed.
“Thank God because it's too fuckin' hard to get into virgin' pants.”
I wondered if he knew how wrong he was.
He then put out his cigarette and mine, and looked me right in the eyes as he slowly undressed. I followed. I've never been more nervous. And I've also never felt so much pain. The second he was inside me I asked him to slow down, and shoved at his granite chest that I had enjoyed nestling against so much. I couldn't take the pain. It was worse than the time my sister had rammed an ear bud into my ear and damaged my ear drum. Jacob laughed and pressed his lips against mine. When I managed to free my mouth I told him, louder and more firmly this time, screamed at him that he was hurting me; that I had lied to him and was, indeed, a sorry little virgin. His face twisted into a chilling smirk.
“Did you think that I didn't know, beautiful? This is what you wanted. You didn't think it would be painless, did you?” he asked this in his soft lilting poet-voice, as he covered my trembling mouth with his huge hand that I had so loved losing mine in. “This pain is nothing compared to the love we're expressing, Kathy.”
No moment has ever been so final to me. I was powerless. He was right; I had brought this upon myself. It was my own fault that I believed his little poems; that I had let his words get to my head and form an illusion of love. I had believed that when the moment finally came, he would be gentle with me, because he loved me back. How naïve!
I looked up at the cobwebs on the ceiling and cried as Jacob pinned me to his lovely bed and had his way with me.
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